



1 ^ / / 

f're^enteu by 



THE 



ART OF PLAYWRITING 



BEING A PEACTICAL TREATISE ON THE 

ELEMENTS OF DRAMATIC 

CONSTRUCTION 



INTENDED FOR THE PLAYWRIGHT, THE STUDENT, 
AlfB THE DRAMATIC CRITIC 



ALFRED HENNEQUIN, Ph.R 




BOSTON" AND NEW YORK 
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 



/y. 






COPYRIGHT, 1890, BY ALFRED HENNEqUIN 
COPYRIGHT. I918, BY MARIE HENNEqUIN 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 






To 
BRONSON HOWARD, 

IN REMEMBRANCE OF A PLEASANT WINTER WHEN THE 
SHENANDOAH WAS ON THE STOCKS. 

THE AUTllOE. 



INTEODUCTIOK 



There are two classes of readers for whose 
needs a book of this sort should aim to pro- 
vide : (1) those who know much about the 
practical workings of the theatre, but have 
little constructive knowledge ; and (2) those 
whose instinct for dramatic construction is 
strong, but who, through lack of opportunity, 
have acquired little insight into the practical 
details of stage representation. With this 
end in view, the work has been arranged in 
two principal divisions, the first dealing with 
the minutiae of the theatre, the second with 
the principles of dramatic construction. 

In the first the reader is inducted into the 
twilight region which lies beyond the scenes, 
told the name and function of the pieces of 
stage machinery, introduced to "wings," 
" flats,'' " set-pieces,'' " grooves," " torment- 
ors," — taught the office of the various exits 
and entrances, initiated into the mysteries of 
stage conventionalities — in short, made ac- 
quainted with every feature of the modern 
stage which concerns him as a working play- 
wright. In the second part, an endeavor is 



VI INTRODUCTION. 

made to set forth, the theory and art of play- 
writing, first, by a thorough classification and 
analysis of the drama, and second, by a prac- 
tical exposition of the actual process of build- 
ing up a play from the first crude suggestion. 
To very many readers doubtless an attempt 
to teach an art notoriously so subtile and 
complex as that of play writing will seem 
like proposing a recipe for " Paradise Lost " 
or a formula for "The Mill on the Floss." 
They will say (and with much plausibility) 
that if play writing is an art, its rules are 
airy, impalpable, elusive. To set them down 
in prosaic black and white is to imprison 
Ariel in the rived oak where he can no 
longer work his magic for us. The force of 
all this may be granted, and yet we may in- 
sist that there are special reasons why a 
work on playwriting, if properly conceived, 
should be entitled to greater consideration 
than one which pretends to explain the se- 
crets of poetry or fiction. The poet or novel- 
ist is at arm's length from his audience. He 
has only to get his poem or novel into type 
and his thought is within reach of every 
man that reads. With the dramatist the case 
is far otherwise. Between him and his audi- 
ence looms up a monstrous, unwieldy, mys- 
terious instrument of interpretation, rusty 
with traditions, top-heavy with prejudices, 
stuffed to bursting with curious, antiquated, 
sjrazy machinery of which few know, or care 



INTRODUCTION. VU 

to know, the meaning. It is through this 
instrument — the theatre — that the drama- 
tist must convey his conception to his hear- 
ers. No matter how brilliant his genius, 
how fertile his imagination, unless he has 
studied the intricacies of this ponderous mar- 
chine his labor is likely to go for nothingo 
His play may be most delightful reading, 
but unless it will lend itself to the peculiar 
requirements of the stage it is not worth, for 
dramatic purposes, the paper it is written on. 

Now there are three methods by which the 
beginner may acquire this knowledge. He 
may go on the stage ; he may converse with 
actors and playwrights ; he may have re- 
course to books. The first plan is unques- 
tionably an excellent one. The young dram- 
atist can spend a year in no more profitable 
way than as " walking-gentleman '' in a trav- 
eling or stock company. By no other means 
is he likely to acquire so intimate a knowl- 
edge of the highways and by-ways of the 
world behind the scenes. 

But there are two considerations which 
preclude the universal application of this 
method. In the first place, the young play- 
wright may not know what to observe. He 
may never have learned that first great art — 
the art of seeing with his eyes open. That 
being the case, the time and perhaps money 
which he expends for his stage experience 
may be virtually thrown away ; for the stage, 
while a good school for those who know how 



Vlll INTRODUCTION. 

to take advantage of its instruction, is one of 
the worst in the world for those who do not. 
Nowhere is the student unguided by sound 
principles more likely to acquire a taste for 
small theatrical artifices, hackneyed phrases 
and forced, unmeaning situations. As a proof 
that mere presence on the stage is not suffi- 
cient of itself to inculcate valid dramatic 
jjrinciples, any reader of plays could cite the 
case of hundreds of actors of the day whose 
familiarity with stage matters has become 
second nature, and who yet betray the most 
absolute misconception of the application of 
their technical knowledge to the business of 
playwriting. 

But there is another and a less debatable 
objection to the stage as a dramatic educator. 
What this is, will appear as soon as we try 
to answer the question. Who writes plays ? 
Upon this point, no one but a professional 
"reader" can pretend to furnish accurate 
statistics. It will be interesting, therefore, 
to quote a private letter to the author from 
one whose right to speak in matters of this 
kind cannot be called in question. 

" There are thousands of plays written 
every year in this country. ... It would be 
easier to enumerate the classes of those who 
do not write plays than of those who do. . . . 
We receive MSS. from journalists, novelists, 
dramatic critics, theatrical reporters, amateur 
performers, merchants, brokers, bankers, law- 
yers (not only the yOung and obscure but 



INTRODUCTION. IX 

those of almost national reputation), ladies of 
high social position, government clerks, army 
and navy officials, telegraph operators, college 
students, bookkeepers, typewriters, physicians, 
teachers in our public schools (of both sexes), 
professors in our leading universities, actors, 
theatrical managers and attaches, commer- 
cial travelers, musicians, painters, architects, 
engravers, ministers, politicians, congressmen, 
and members of the supreme bench of — I 
dare not say what States of the Union." 

Now in the majority of these cases it 
would be manifestly absurd to advise any 
going upon the stage. The humble govern- 
ment clerk desirous of eking out her meagre 
salary, the cripple and the invalid, alleviating 
the real tragedy of life by the ideal sorrows of 
imaginary characters, the hurried professional 
man and the harried journalist, — all these 
are alike debarred from the means of acquir- 
ing the needed information. Nor in many 
instances is it practicable for those of the 
classes named to consult with dramatists or 
actors regarding the rules and requirements 
of stage representation. 

It is upon books, we must then conclude, 
that the great army of those who experiment 
at play writing — the army from whose ranks 
our professional playwrights are largely 
drawn — is dependent for whatever instruc- 
tion it may get regarding the art of writing 
plays for the stage. Eor English and Amer- 
ican readers such books are practically non- 



X INTRODUCTION. 

existent. There is no one work, at any rate, 
in the English language or any other tongue 
(as far as the author's experience goes) which 
pretends to have gathered together all avail- 
able information on the subject. A real de- 
ficiency seems, therefore, to exist, and it is 
with the purpose of supplying this deficiency 
that the present work has been written. As 
to the old question. How much benefit may a 
writer derive from books on writing ? — that 
is a discussion which may be set aside simply 
because it is old. ]S"o great author was ever 
hurt by the study of the principles of rhetoric, 
and no small author ever achieved success 
without such study. Although no book of 
this sort is able to supply the dramatic faculty 
where it is absolutely wanting, or likely tq 
aid materially the creative processes of strong 
natural genius, it may yet be the means of 
leading to the achievement of no inconsider- 
able number of smaller successes, and so ac- 
complish what is, after all, the only hope of 
the drama in this country, — the raising of 
the general average of dramatic workman- 
ship. 

It may be said, in conclusion, that there 
are many persons beside those who have felt 
the actual need of a book of this kind, for 
whom the study of dramatic art (even if lim- 
ited to construction) will be found of profit. 
The dramatic critic, indeed, finds it altogether 
indispensable ; but to any one who is at all 
interested in the study of literature, and 



INTRODUCTION. XI 

especially of the drama, it may be recom- 
mended as one of the most interesting and 
delightful fields for investigation which it is 
possible for him to cultivate. 

In the preparation of this work, the au- 
thor has received assistance and suggestions 
from so many playwrights, actors, managers 
and literary men that he can find space here 
only to make a general acknowledgment. It 
would be ungrateful in him, however, to pass 
by without special mention the great obliga- 
tions under which he rests, to that prince of 
gentlemen and first of American dramatists, 
Mr. Bronson Howard, to Mr. A. M. Palmer, 
manager of the Madison Square Theatre, to 
Mr. Louis Ludovici, " reader " of the Madison 
Square Theatre, to Mrs. " Minnie Maddern " 
Eiske, and — last but by no means least — 
to Madame Janauschek. It is a pleasure 
also to refer to many kindly favors shown 
him by the late A. S. Cazauran, although the 
ears that should hear these thanks have long 
been closed to the things of this world. 

Finally, the author wishes to acknowledge 
a very considerable indebtedness to Mr. E. N. 
Scott, Assistant Professor of Ehetoric and 
lecturer on Esthetics in the University of 
Michigan, of whose wide scholarship in mat- 
ters pertaining to literature, art, and the drama 
he has freely availed himself. 

Alfred Hennequin. 
Ann Arbor, Michigan, July, 1890. 



CONTENTS. 



CHAPTER I. 

THE THEATBE STAFF. 

PAGE 

;. Officers and Attaches 1 

(1.) The Manager 1 

(2.) The Assistant Manager 1 

(3.) The Treasurer 2 

(4.) The Stage-Manager 2 

(5.) The Reader 3 

2. The Attaches 3 

(1.) The Property-Man 3 

(2.) The Fly-Man 3 

(3.) The Gas-Man 4 

(4.) The Seene-i^hifter 4 

(5.) The Stage-Carpenter 4 

(6.) The Ticket-Taker 4 

(7.) The Backdoor-Keeper 4 

(8.) The Head-Usher 5 

(9.) The Director of the Orchestra 5 

CHAPTER II. 

THE STAGE. 

1. The Boards 6 

2. The Stage 6 

3. Parts of the Stage 6 

4. The Stage Proper 7 

5. The Stage-Cloths 7 

6. The Proscenium 8 

7. The Wings 8 



XIV TABLE OF CONTENTS. 

8. The Flies S 

9. The Dock 9 

10. The Green-Room 9 

11. The Property-Room 9 

12. The Dressing-Ruoins - 10 

13. The Traps 10 

14. Dimensions of the Stage 11 



CHAPTER III. 

THE SCENERY. 

1. Stage Scenery 12 

2. Different kinds of Scenery ''2 

3. The Drops 12 

4. The Flats and Wood-Cuts 13 

5. The Set-Pieces 14 

6. The Borders 14 

7. A Bunch-Light 15 

8. The Grooves 15 

9. A Run 15 

10. A Scene-Plot 15 

11. A Property-Plot 15 

12. The Settuig of a Play 15 



CHAPTER IV. 



STAGE DIKECTIONS. 

1. Lines and Business 16 

2. Analysis of the Illustration. 16 

3. Tlie Lines 17 

4. The Business 17 

5. Kinds of Business 17 

6. At Rise ,,.,, 17 

7. Enters and Exi^ , 18 

8. Location of Characters during the Act 18 

9. Meaning of Abbreviations 19 

10. Plan with Entrances 20 

11. Meaning of Abbreviations 20 

12. The Tormentors 21 

13. Movement of Characters during the Act 21 

14. Going Up 22 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. XT 

16. Coming Down 22 

16. Crossing Over 22 

17. Exercise in Stage Movements 22 

18. Incidents 23 

19. Minor Business , 23 



CHAPTER V. 

STAGE PLANS. 

1. Interiors 25 

Plan No. 1 25 

2. Doors and Windows 25 

3. Number of Entrances 26 

Plan No. 2 26 

4. Plan with Run 26 



CHAPTER VI. 

STAGE PLANS {continued). 

1. Exteriors 28 

Plan No. 1 28 

2. General Remarks on Plans 28 

Plan No. 2 29 

3. Additional Abbreviations for Stage-Settings 29 

4. Material for Scene-Plots for the above Interiors 

and Exteriors 29 

For Interior Plan No. 1 30 

For Interior Plan No. 2 30 

For Exterior Plan No. 1 31 

For Exterior Plan No. 2 31 

5. Property Plots 31 

CHAPTER VII. 

DIFFEKENT KINDS OF PLAYS. — TRAGEDY. 

1. No Systematic Classification 32 

2. Two Principal Classes 32 

3. The Distinction Valuable 3? 

4. Different Classes of Plays 3* 

6. Tragedy 34 



XVI TABLE OF CONTENTS. 

6. Comedy SS 

7. Theme, Characters, Plot, and Style 35 

8. The Theme 36 

9. Kinds of Tragedy 37 

10. Meaning of the word " Classic " 37 

11. Meaning of the word " Romantic " 38 

12. Ancient Classic Tragedy 38 

13. Theme, Characters, Plot, and Style 39 

14. Modern Classic Tragedy 39 

15. Theme, Characters, Plot, and Style 39 

16. Romantic Tragedy 40 

17. Theme, Characters, Plot, and Style 40 

18. Mediated Tragedy 41 

CHAPTER YIll. 

DIFFEEENT KINDS OF PLATS (continued). — MEDIATED 
TRAGET)Y. 

1. Subdivisions 43 

2. The Drame 43 

3. The Romantic Drame 43 

4. Theme, Characters, Plot, and Style 44 

5. The Social Drame 45 

6. The Pi^ce 45 

7. Theme, Characters, Plot, and Style 46 

8. The Emotional Drama 46 

9. Theme, Characters, Plot, and Style 46 

10. Melodrama 47 

11. Theme, Characters, Plot, and Style 47 

12. Spectacular Drama 48 

13. The Musical Drama 49 



CHAPTER IX. 

DIFFERENT KINDS OF PLAYS (continued). — COMEDY. 

1. Kinds of Comedy 50 

2. Ancient Classic Comedy 51 

3. Modern Classic and Romantic Comedy 61 

4. Comedy of Manners 51 

5. Tlie Comedy Drama 52 

6. 7'he Farce Comedy , 62 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. xvil 

7. The Farce 53 

8. The Burlesque , 53 

9. The Burletta 53 

10. The Comedietta , 53 

11. Kecapitulation and Illustrations 54 

CHAPTER X. 

THE PAKTS OF A PLAY. 

1. Acts 57 

2. Divisions of the Acts 57 

3. Definition of an Act 57 

4. Entr'acte 57 

5. Scene 57 

6. Tableau 57 

7. Situation 58 

8. Number of Acts 58 

9. Length of Acts 59 

10. How to Determine the Length of an Act. 60 

11. Kule for Determining the Length of a Play. ...... 61 

CHAPTER XI. 

THE ENTER. 

1. Meaning of the Term 62 

2. Discovered at Rise 62 

3. The Re-Enter 62 

4. When the Term Re-enter should be used 62 

5. Passing at Rear 63 

6. Appearance 63 

7. Management of the Enter 64 

8. Logical Enter 64 

9. Conventional Use of Entrances 65 

10. Lines with Enter 65 

11. Use of the Tormentors 66 

12. Preparing for Enter 66 

13. Stereotyped Forms 67 

14. Enters prepared for by the Plot 67 

15. Leading up to Enter of Star 68 

16. Names Mentioned 69 

17. Double Enter 69 

18. Unnoticed Enter , 69 



xvm TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



CHAPTER XII. 

THE EXIT. 

1. Meaning of the Term 70 

2. Relation of the Exit to the Lines 70 

3. The Exit to create a Situation 70 

4. Exit without Lines 71 

5. Exit with an Apart 71 

6. Exit with Re-enter 71 

CHAPTER XIII. 

DIFFEBElirT ROLES IN PliATS. — MALE KOLESa 

1. Types of Characters 73 

2. Classification of Actors 73 

3. Roles 73 

4. Male Roles 74 

5. The Star 74 

6. Star Plays 74 

7. Double Stars 75 

8. The Leading Man 75 

9. The Heavy 75 

10. The First Old Man 76 

11. The Second Old Man 76 

12. The Comedian 76 

13. The Light Comedian 76 

14. The Low Comedian 77 

15. The Eccentric Comedian 77 

16. The ViUain 77 

17. The Juvenile 78 

18. The Walkmg Gentleman 78 

19. The Utility Man 78 

20. The Super 78 

21. Character Actor 78 

22. Doubhng up 79 

CHAPTER XIV. 

DIFFERENT ROLES IN PLAYS. — FEMALE ROLES. 

1. Classification of Female Roles 80 

2. Correspondence to Male Roles 80 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. xix 

3. The Soubrette 81 

4. The Ingenue .81 

5. Arrangement of Cast 81 

6. Cast of Traveling Companies 82 

CHAPTER XV. 

WHAT CONSTITUTES A PLAY. 

1. Definition V. 83 

2. The Story 84 

3. What Constitutes a Story 85 

4. Characters 85 

5. Characters Suited to the Story 86 

6. Characters Distinguished 86 

7. Self -Consistency of Characters 87 

8. Characters as Foils 87 

9. Completeness 87 

10. Unity 88 

11. The Three Unities 89 

12. Unity of Action 89 

13. Unity of Time 89 

14. Unity of Place 89 

15. The Story must be one that can be Acted 90 

16. The Story must be suited to Stage Conventions 90 

17. Motived Incidents 91 

CHAPTER XVI. 

WHAT CONSTITUTES A PLAY (continued) .— SIEANS OP 
CREATING INTEREST. 

1. Interest and Pleasure 92 

2. Novelty 92 

3. Variety and Contrast 93 

4. Suspense 93 

5. Surprise 94 

6. Climax 95 

7. Humor and Pathos 95 

8. Where Stories come from 95 

9. Character of Good Stories 98 

10. Adaptation 96 

11. Adapting Novels 97 

12. Adapting Foreign Plays 97 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



CHAPTER XVII. 

THEORETICAL CONSTRUCTION. — EXPOSITION. 

1. Making the Outline 98 

2. Intervals 98 

3. Purpose of the Exposition 99 

4. Management of the Exposition 100 

5. Methods of Exposition 100 

6. The Prologue .100 

7. The Spoken Prologue . .100 

8. The Acted Prologue 101 

9. Exposition by Narration 101 

10. Spirited Narration 102 

11. Points of Effectiveness 103 

12. Exposition made part of the Story 104 

13. Implication 104 

14. Implication by Words 104 

15. Analysis of ImpKcation by Words 105 

16. Implication by Action = 107 

17. Length of Exposition 107 



CHAPTER XVIII. 

THEORETICAL CONSTRUCTION (continued) . — GUOWTH. 

1. Growth and Exposition 109 

2. Conflict and Plot 109 

3. Beginning of the Growth 110 

4. Elements of the Conflict Ill 

5. Main and Subsidiary Actions 113 

6. Example of Subsidiary Action 113 

7. Analysis of Illustration 115 

8. Episodes 115 

9. Series of Climaxes 116 

CHAPTER XIX. 

THEORETICAL CONSTRUCTION (continued). — THE 
HEIGHT OR GRANB CLIMAX. 

1. Tying of the Knot 118 

2. Rules of the Height 118 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. xxi 

3. Height as Consequence of the Growth 119 

4. Height as Summing up of the Growth 119 

5. Place of the Height 120 

6. Multiple Climaxes 121 

7. Management of Multiple CHmaxes 121 

3. lUustration 123 

CHAPTER XX. 

THEORETICAL CONSTRUCTION {continued). — THE FALL. 

1. Object of the Fall 124 

2. Management of the Fall 124 

3. The Fall in Comedy 124 

4. Interposition of New Obstacles 125 

5. Em.phasizing Known Obstacles 127 

6. Necessary Obstacles 128 

7. Obstacles resulting from the Removal of Others . . . 129 

8. The Fall in Tragedy 131 

9. Happy Ending suggested 132 

10. Mediated Tragedy 134 

CHAPTER XXI. 

THEORETICAL CONSTRUCTION (cowf/nwec?). — THE CLOSE 
OR CATASTROPHE. 

1. Kinds of Close 135 

2. The Tragic Catastrophe 135 

3. Death the Result of Transgression 136 

4. Management of the Tragic Catastrophe 136 

5. The Close in Comedy 138 

6. Close with " Gag " 139 

7. Address to Audience 140 

8. Close in Mediated Drama 141 

9. General Remarks on the Close 141 

CHAPTER XXII. 

THEATRICAL CONVENTIONALITIES. 

1. Importance of the Subject 144 

2. Kinds of Conventions 144 

3. Point of View of the Audience 145 



xxii TABLE OF CONTENTS. 

4. Stage Distances 146 

5. Changes of Scene during the Act 147 

6. Order of Scenes 147 

7. Stage Entrances 149 

8. Stage Doors 150 

9. Stage Traditions .150 

10. Stage Time 150 

11. Writing Letters, etc c . - 151 

12. Time between Acts 151. 

13. Conventionalities of the Dialogue 152 

14. The Monologue 152 

15. The Apart 152 

16. The Aside 154 

17. The Stage Whisper .154 

18. Relating Known Events 154 

19. Unimportant Dialogues 155 

20. Costume 155 



CHAPTER XXIII. 

HOW TO WRITE A PLAY. — BLOCKING OUT. 

1. Getting to Work 157 

2. Selection of the Story 158 

3. Expansion of the Story 158 

4. Questions and Answers 159 

6. Importance of Taking Notes 161 

6. Arranging the Material 162 

7. Characters 162 

8. Synopsis of Situations 164 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

HOW TO WRITE A PLAT {continued). — KEAKEANGEMENT. 

1. Order of Work 167 

2. Exposition 168 

3. What is to be Told 169 

4. How it shaU be Told 170 

5. Preparing for Later Incidents 174 

6. Length of the Exposition 174 

7. Order of Incidents .175 

8. Incidents not Represented on the Stage 176 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



xxm 



9. Division into Acts 177 

10. Principles of Division 177 

11. Application of the Principles .178 



b 



CHAPTER XXV. 

HOW TO "WRITE A PLAY {continued). — ET^^LTSG IS. 

1. Outline of Scenes - - 181 

2. Order of Scenes ; 182 

3. Connection of Scenes 182 

4. Sequence of Scenes > 183 

5. Variety of S'-^aes 183 

6. Variety of ^motions 183 

7. Number and Grouping of Characters 184 

8. Variety of Exits and Enters 184 

9. Time of Characters on the Stage 185 

10. Opportunities for Dressing 185 

11. Opportunities for Acting 186 

12. Dialogue 186 



THE ART OF PLAYWEITING. 



CHAPTER I. 

THE THEATRE STAFF. 

1. Officers and Attaches. — The organic 
zation of every well-equipped theatre includes 
the following officers and attaches. 

The Officers are : — 

(1.) The Manageh. The manager has 
general charge and oversight of the theatre ; 
attends to the engagement of the company, 
if the theatre supports a stock-company,^ to 
the hooking of com-xjcinies,'^ and — what is of 
most consequence to the playwright — decides 
upon the acceptance of plays submitted to the 
theatre. 

(2.) The Assistant -Maxagek. In the 
largest theatres there is usually an assistant- 
manager who transacts routine business, and 
■whose principal duties consist in superintend- 
ing the minor details of the general manage- 
ment. 

^ See Chapter xiv. 5. 

2 Arranging for dates when companies shall produce 
their plays. 



2 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

Every company on the road ^ is accompa. 
niecl and managed by a road-manager. These 
managers either attend to the production of 
plays as a personal speculation, negotiating 
with authors for the sale of plays or the 
right to produce the same on certain condi- 
tions, or simply manage the general business 
of stai^s,^ or of traveling stock-companies. 

(3.) The Tkeasurek. The treasurer has 
charge of all the moneys received or ex- 
pended by the theatre. His principal func- 
tion, however, is the control of the box-office,^ 
and the accounting to the manager of the 
amount received, after each performance of a 
play. 

(4) The Stage-Manager. This impor- 
tant functionary has entire and supreme con- 
trol of the stage during the rehearsal * and 
production of a play. He personally superin- 
tends rehearsals, attending to every detail, — 
the movements and the grouping of the actors 
for situations, scenes, or tableaus,^ the arrange- 
ment of the general stage-settings,^ the pre- 
paring of scene-jdots "^ and of ]property-;plots,^ 



^ A traveling- company producing one or more plays 
throughout the country. 
2 See Chapter xiii. 5. 
8 Frequently called the ticket-office. 

* The recital and preparing of a play for its pnblio 
production. 

* See Chapter x. 6. ^ See Chapter iii. 12. 
^ See Chapter iii. 10. ^ See Chapter iii. 11. 



THE THEATRE STAFF. 3 

A good stage-inanager has almost as much 
to do with, the success of a play as the actors 
themselves. 

All stock-company theatres employ a stage- 
manager. Theatres that simply do the book- 
ing of traveling companies have a local stage- 
manager, whose duties are more limited, and 
who, alone or in connection with the visiting 
stage-manager, prepares the stage for the pro- 
duction of the play to be given. 

(5.) The Eeader. Some of the metropoli- 
tan theatres that are in the habit of bringing 
out original plays employ a professional 
reader ^ of plays, who examines all the man- 
uscripts submitted to the theatre, rejects those 
that are hopelessly inferior, and recommends 
to the manager's attention such as are avail- 
able, or can be made so by revision. 

2. The Attaches. — Persons of lesser im- 
portance connected with the theatre are : — 

(1.) The Pkoperty-Man. The business 
of the property-man is to care for all the arti- 
cles, miscellaneous objects of all kinds, furni- 
ture, appendages, etc., known as properties,^ 
used in the production of plays. 

(2.) The Fly-Man. The fly-man attends 
to the shifting and dropping of such scenery 
as can be handled from the rigging-loft, or 
fiies.^ 

^ All manuscripts should be sent to the reader. If a 
play is rejected by him, an appeal to the manager is 



2 See Chapter ii. 11. ^ See Chapter ii. 3, (4) and (5). 



4 THE ART OF PLAYWRITIXG. 

(3.) The Gas-Man. The gas-man regu- 
lates the light on the stage and in the audi- 
torium during the production of a play. 

The term is still retained, in spite of the 
fact that electricity has, in many theatres, 
taken the place of gas as a means of illumi- 
nation. 

(4.) The Scene - Shifter. The scene- 
shifter handles such scenery as can be moved 
in the wings} 

(o.) The Stage-Carpenter. The stage- 
carpenter, besides doing the general construc- 
tion and repairing of the stage and the 
appurtenances, has special duties during the 
progress of the play. He attends to the me- 
chanical details of the stage-setting, such as 
the building up of elaborate set-pieces,^ runs,' 
stairways, etc., to the movement of machin- 
ery representing waves, moving vessels and 
the like, and is constantly on hand in the 
wings to superintend the shifting of compli- 
cated scenery. 

(6.) The Ticket - Taker. The ticket- 
taker attends to the taking of the tickets at 
the entrance of the auditorium, and accounts 
to the treasurer after the performance. 

(7.) The Backdoor-Keeper. The back- 
door-keeper guards all the entrances to the 

1 See Chapter ii. 7. ^ See Chapter iii. 5. 

^ See Chapter iii. 9. 



THE THEATRE STAFF. 5 

stage (but especially what is known as tlie 
stage entrance ^), during the performance. 

(8.) The Head-Usher. The head-usher 
and his assistants seat the audience. 

(9.) The Director of the Orchestra, 
The director of the orchestra has charge of 
the orchestra, and consults with the stage- 
manager about the music to be played during 
the performance, in accordance with certain 



* The entrance admitting the actors to the stage wiiih- 
out passing through the auditorium. 

2 The last word of a speech which a player is to an- 
swer. A music cue is taken up by the orchestra as it 
would be on the stage by an actor. 



CHAPTEE II. 

THE STAGE. 

1. The Boards. — In a limited sense, the 
word stage signifies the floor, or the boards, 
on which theatrical performances are exhib- 
ited, as distinct from the auditorium ; hence 
the expression to go on the hoards, meaning to 
become an actor. 

2. The Stage. — In its more extended 
meaning the word stage is applied to all that 
region which lies back of the proscenium,'^ of 
which space the visible stage occupies but a 
very small portion. 

3. Parts of the Stage. — The stage has 
some nine distinct parts, as follows : — 

(1.) The stage proper, where the action of 
the play takes place. 

(2.) The proscenium, the frontispiece, or 
front part of the stage, ^. e., all that is left 
exposed to the view of the audience when the 
curtain is down. 

(3.) The unngs, a series of chambers or 
platforms on each side of the stage proper. 

(4.) The files, the space above the curtain 
and extending over the whole of the stage. 
^ See this chapter, farther on, 3, (2). 



THE STAGE. 7 

(5.) The rigging-loft, the same space occu- 
pied by the flies, but considered with partic- 
ular reference to the machinery contained in 
it. 

(6.) The dock, the space under the whole 
area of the stage-floor. 

(7.) The green-room, a survival of the old 
tireynge-house, or tireynge-room, where the 
actors assemble, awaiting the time for the per- 
formance to begin, or to which they retire 
when not needed on the stage. 

The popular conception of the green-room 
as a sort of promiscuous dressing-room is 
absurdly fallacious. 

(8.) The property-room, where are kept the 
miscellaneous objects used on the stage, ex- 
cepting scenery and sets of furniture. 

(9.) The dressing-rooms, where the perform- 
ers dress for and during the performance of 
the play. 

4. The Stage Proper. — The action of the 
play usually takes place on the floor called 
the stage proper. This floor slopes upwards 
and away from the audience, thus gaining the 
effect of foreshortening, and so appearing 
deeper than it really is. 

6. The Stage-Cloth. — The floor of the 
stage proper is usually covered with a green 
cloth, unless other furnishing, such as carpets^ 
rugs, etc., are called for by the play. When 
the cloth is to be used, the technical expres- 
sion cloth down should be inserted in the manu- 
script at the beginning of the act. 



8 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

6. The Proscenium. — The proscenium 
varies in size in different tlieatres, being some- 
times reduced to a mere strip not a yard in 
■width. On the side nearest the audience are 
the foot-lights, a series of lights casting a pow- 
erful reflection on the lower part of the stage. 
Though foot-lights are still in common use, 
different and better systems of lighting up 
the stage have of late been devised. 

The proscenium in many metropolitan 
theatres has on each side one or more series 
of boxes, i. e. seats inclosed so as to form 
small private parlors overlooking the stage. 

In front of the foot-lights and below the 
level of the stage is seated the orchestra, the 
conductor's seat being on a platform elevated 
above the seats of the rest of the orchestra. 
Various mechanical and other devices are now 
in use for concealing the orchestra either in 
a portion of the dock or in the flies. 

7. The "Wings. — The space on each side 
of the stage, from the side walls of the the- 
atre to the scenery when set up for a play, 
is called the wings. The space in the wings 
varies according to the amount of actual space 
required for the performance of the play. 

In most theatres, the greater part of the 
scenery is kept in the wings or at hack, i. e., 
against the back wall of the stage. 

There is a tendency in the larger theatres to 
do away with the storing of scenery in the 
wings, all or most of the different pieces of 



THE STAGE. 9 

scenery being made to ascend from the dock, 

or to descend from the flies. 

8. The Flies. — In the larger theatres, the 
flies take up the greater portion of the stage, 
not only extending over the whole region, 
but going up several stories to fully double the 
height of the proscenium arch. 

In the flies are found the rows of wind- 
lasses, rigging, etc., used for the raising or 
lowering of the scenery. The parts of the 
flies occupied by this machinery are termed 
the rigging-loft. 

9. The Dock. — The region under the 
stage called the dock is also, in the largest 
theatres, divided into several stories by suc- 
cessive floors. Here is found the machinery 
for operating the traps,^ raising and lowering 
scenery through the stage, etc. 

10. The Green -Room. — The green-room 
is a luxury not always found in smaller the- 
atres ; and even in larger theatres, private 
parlors connected with the dressing-rooms 
are preferred to one larger room, some the- 
atres combining both. 

11. The Property-Room. — The property- 
room is a repository for the innumerable ob- 
jects handled, sat on, broken, thrown about, 
or pointed at during the progress of the play. 
Here are to be found Hamlet's " recorders,'^ 
Shylock's knife, Juliet's vial of poison, 
Prospero's wand, Eichelieu's manuscript, the 

1 See this chapter, faxther on, 13. 



10 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

brass money that Armand flings at Camille, 
and the tin dagger with which Brutus stabs 
Caesar, — not to mention rubber turkeys, 
pasteboard beakers, papier-mache legs-of-mut- 
ton, and all the rest of the realistic though 
deceptive articles that go to make up the cus- 
tomary stage banquet. 

It is well for the playwright to remember 
that in most of the smaller theatres the list of 
properties includes only the articles most com- 
monly used upon the stage. Costly proper- 
ties, or articles that are hard to obtain outside 
of large cities, should, if possible, be avoided. 

12. The Dressing-Rooms. — The dress- 
ing-rooms are located where they will occupy 
the least possible space. While in many of 
the larger theatres these rooms are actual 
boudoirs, easy of access from the stage, ip. 
most of the smaller ones they are bare, car- 
petless boxes, situated without regard to the 
actor's convenience, in the flies, in the dock, 
on the side of the stage, or midway between 
the floor and the rigging-loft. 

13. The Traps. — The traps are holes cut 
through the stage-floor, and furnished with 
apparatus by means of which an actor may be 
slowly or rapidly elevated from below to the 
level of the stage, or in the same manner 
lowered from the stage into the dock. 

It is impossible to go into details regarding 
the different kinds of traps. Some of the 
modern stages are literally honeycombed with 



THE STAGE. 11 

thenij so that in any quarter of the stage there 
can be made to open a hole jnst large enough 
to admit a gas-pipe, or a gaping chasm capable 
of swallowing up a (canvas) city. 

The term trap is also applied to openings 
cut in the scenery for the sudden appearance 
or disappearance of performers. 

14. Dimensions of the Stage. — Stages 
are of various dimensions, according to whether 
they are built for general or special purposes. 
Stages that have neither complete rigging- 
lofts nor docks are not well adapted to the 
production of spectacular plays.-^ 

The dimensions of the smaller theatres 
throughout the country will average about as 
follows : — 

(1.) Width of stage, including wings . . 65 ft. 
(2.) Depth from the foot-lights to back 

wall of stage . . . , . 30 f t. 
(3.) Height of rigging-loft ... 40 ft. 
(4.) Space above rigging-loft . . . 5 ft. 

Theatres of the above dimensions seldom 
have a dock of more than one story. 

* See Chapter viii. 11, 



CHAPTER III. 

THE SCENERY. 

1. Stage Scenery. — The various paint- 
ings or other representations of inanimate 
nature required for the production of a play 
— excepting what comes under the head of 
properties and furniture — constitute the 
scenery. 

As it is not within the scope of this book to 
describe in detail the different kinds of scen- 
ery used for theatrical performances, this 
chapter will deal only with such features of 
the subject as are of special interest to the 
dramatist. 

2. Different kinds of Scenery, — There 
are four important kinds of scenery : — 

(1.) The drops. 

(2.) The flats and wood-cuts. 

(3.) The set-pieces. 

(4.) The borders. 

3. The Drops. — The drops are usually 
painted canvases let down from the flies. 
Since they have no wooden frames, they are 
often termed cloths. 

The principal cloths are : — 



THE SCENERY. 13 

(1.) The greeii curtain, lowered when the 
play is over.^ 

(2.) The front curtain, or act drop, which is 
down until the play opens, and is lowered at 
the end of each act. 

(3.) Back, or scene cloths, lowered at various 
distances from the front, usually to represent 
the vista of exteriors. 

4. The Flats and Wood-cuts. — Under 
the heads of flats and wood-cuts come all 
structures of canvas stretched tightly on 
wooden frames. 

In the larger theatres, flats are usually made 
of one piece, arranged so as to be let down 
from the flies like drops, or pushed up from 
the docks. When removed, they are said to 
be whipjped off. 

In most theatres, flats are made in two cor- 
responding pieces intended to be pushed out 
in the grooves ^ from the wings, and to join 
in the middle so as to form one continuous 
scene. 

Wood-cuts are structures of canvas stretched 
on wooden frames, cut so as to represent or- 
namental pieces, such as arches, trees, etc. 
They have a variety of other names, as cut- 
woods, side-scenes, and wing-cuts. 

In exteriors,^ where they are mostly used, 
they form the scenery visible on each side of 

^ Most theatres have no green curtain. 
^ See this chapter, farther on, 8. 
* See Chapter vi. 1. 



14 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

the stage, constituting the various entrances * 
to the stage proper. 

5. The Set-pieces. — A set-piece is a struc- 
ture built out from a flat, or standing isolated 
on the stage. 

Among the many different set-pieces the 
ones most commonly used are : — 

(1.) Set houses. 

(2.) Set trees. 

(3.) Set rocks. 

(4.) Set mounds. 

(5.) Set water. 

Everything on the stage that can actually 
be used is called practicahle (sometimes short- 
■ened to practical). Thus a set house is prac- 
ticable if it can be used as an enter or exit ; ^ 
a window, if it can be opened and shut; a 
mound, if it can be used as a seat, etc. In 
set houses one window and one door are usu- 
ally made practicable, the rest being merely 
painted. 

6. The Borders. — The borders comprise 
the s^cenery let down from the flies to a point 
just below the level of the proscenium arch, 
so as to conceal the rigging-loft. They are 
used to represent clouds, the sky, ceilings, 
tops of trees, etc., and are called cut-horders 
when they allow objects behind to be seen 
through them. Cut-borders are usually tree* 
tops. 

^ See Chapter vi. plan No. 1. 

* See Chapter xi. and xii., also plan 1, Chapter vi. 



THE SCENERY. 15 

7. A Bunch-light. — A bunch - light is 
formed by a number of lights bunched to- 
gether, supported by a rod and placed wher- 
ever necessary. When a " calcium " is neces- 
sary, the gas-man is told to " get his calcium 
on." These lights are used to produce certain 
stage effects, such as moonlight through win- 
dows, etc. 

8. The Grooves. — The side-scenes (them= 
selves sometimes called ivings) when pushed 
out from the sides of the stage, are supported 
at the top by a series of grooves built out 
from the rigging-loft, and at the bottom by a 
similar series constructed on the floor of the 
stage. Scenery thus shifted is said to be run 
on. Sets of grooves vary in number from four 
to six. 

9. A Run. — A run is a wooden inclined 
plane coming down towards the front of the 
stage. A run is always practicable. 

10. A Scene-Plot. — A scene-plot is the 
plan, or prepared appearance, on paper, of 
the stage when all the scenery has been 
located for an act or scene. It also includes 
the location of all the furniture needed for 
the action of the play in each act or scene. 

11. A Property-Plot. — A property-plot is 
a list of the various articles required in each 
act. 

12. The Setting of a Play. — The setting 
of a play consists in preparing the scene-plots 
for each act, scene, or tableau, and also mak- 
ing out the list for the property-plots. 



CHAPTER ly. 

STAGE DIRECTIONS. 

1. Lines and Business. — The following 

passage from Bronson Howard's Saratoga 
will be used to illustrate what we have to say 
under this head : — 

[Enter Lucy L. 2 E. rapidly.] 

Lucy. Effie — Virginia — Mrs. Alston ! 

Effie. Oh — Virginia — Lucy — Olivia ! 

[Ladies moving to and fro,'} 
Mrs. Alston. Oh — Jack — my dear Jack — My first 
love ! [Sinks into a chair, C-] 

Virginia. Frank — my last love ! [Sinks beside 
her, L ] 

Lucy. My husband ! [Sinks beside her, R.] 
Effie. [Standing back of her chair, C] Robert I ! 
J'aime que toi — my only love ! 

[Ladies all choke, and then burst into simultaneous sobs.^ 
Tableau. 
Curtain. 

2. Analysis of the Illustration. — A 

brief examination will show that the above 
extract is made up of two kinds of matter : — 

(1.) The words that are put into the mouths 
of the characters. 

(2.) The various directions, such as enter^ 
sinks into a chair, etc. 



STAGE DIRECTIONS. 17 

3. The Lines. — The first are technically 
known as the lines, that is, the dialogue. 

4. Th© Business. — The second, called 
the business of the play, includes all move- 
ments, gestures, inarticulate utterances, etc., 
with which the actor accompanies the *' read- 
ing " (i. e., the speaking) of the lines. 

Only the most essential business need be 
indicated in the manuscript. Much will be 
implied in the wording of the lines ; still more 
must be left to the option of the actor. It is 
a rule, however, that all the exits and enters ^ 
should be carefully inserted at the proper 
points in the lines. 

Stage directions is a wider term than busi- 
ness, including movements of scenery^ and 
stage appendages ; as, e. g., the word " cur- 
tain '' at the close of the passage quoted. 

6. Kinds of Business. — The amount of 
business deemed necessary to be inserted in 
the manuscript varies greatly with different 
playwrights. The following classification in- 
cludes the most essential business of a play : 

(1.) Location of characters at rise. 

(2.) Enters and exits. 

(3.) Location of characters during the act. 

(4.) Incidents of the play. 

(5.) Location of characters at " curtain." 

6. At Rise. — Characters on the stage at 
the moment the curtain rises, are said to be 
discovered at rise. It is usual to indicate at 
, ^ See Chapters xi. and xii. ^ See Chapter iii. 



18 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

the beginning of the act whatever is peculiar 
in their positions or occupations. For exam- 
ple, at the opening of the third act of London 
Assurance, Max and Sir Harcourt, Dazzle, 
Grace and Charles Courtly are discovered at 
rise. 

The stage directions run : — 

" Max and Sir Harcourt seated at one side, Dazzle on 
the other. Grace and young Courtly playing chess at 
back:' 

7. Enters and Exits. — The exact mo- 
ment at which each character comes on or 
goes off the stage must be carefully indicated 
by the terms e7iter or exit (plural exeunt) in- 
serted at the appropriate point in the lines or 
the other stage directions.-^ 

8. Location of Characters during the 
act. — Every significant action of the charac- 
ters during the act should be indicated in the 
manuscript. Further, it is often desirable to 
point out the exact location on the stage at 
which the action takes place. 

There are two methods of doing this : — 

(1.) By reference to objects upon the stage, 
as tables, chairs, scenery, the other characters, 
etc. 

(2.) By means of conventional abbrevia- 
tions referring to particular portions of the 
stage itself. 

The first method requires no explanation. 

^ For further treatment of this important topic, see 
Chapters xi. and xii. 



STAGE DIRECTIONS. 19 

If a character is to hide behind a piano or 
mount a table, the stage directions will be 
" hides hehind piano," ^^ jumps on table," 
etc. 

If the exact position with reference to the 
object is of importance, it should be included 
in the stage direction, as : " stands at left ,of 
table" " leans over gate," etc. 

The terms used in referring to particular 
portions of the stage, together with the com- 
mon abbreviations, are given in the following 
tables and diagrams : — 



H. / C. \ L. 

(REAR ; OB ; BACK.) 



E.C. / C. \ L.C. 



C, 



9. Meaning of Abbreviations. — In plays 
actually intended for the stage, abbreviations 
only are used. 

C Centre. 

R. . . . - . . . Right. 

L Left. 

R. C Rig-lit centre. 

L. C. . . . , . . Left centre. 

The words Uear (or Back) and Front are 
always written in full. 



20 



THE ART OF PL A YW KITING. 



10. Plan with Entrances. — The stage 
is further subdivided as shown in the follow- 
ing plan : — 



DJ?.C. CD. DX.C. 



RU£. 



R.4E. 



R.3E. 



R.2E, 



R.IE, 



R. f R.C. 



L.U.E. 



L.4-E. 



L.3E. 



L.2E. 



V \ — 

L.C.iL.\ L.IE. 



11. Meaning of Abbreviations. — The 

word entrance signifies the place at which a 
character may make his appearance on the 
stage from the rear (or back) or from the 
wings. 



Centre door. 
Door right of centre. 
Door left of centre. 
Right first entrance. 
Right second entrance. 
Right third entrance. 
Right fourth entrance. 
Right upper entrance. 
Left first entrance. 
Left second entrance. 
Left third entrance. 
Left fourth entrance. 
Left upper entrance. 



c. 


D. . . . 


D 


R. C. . . 


D 


L. C. . 


R 


IE.. 


R 


2E. . 


R 


3E. . . . 


R 


4E. . 


R 


U. E. . . 


L. 


IE. . 


L 


2E. . . 


L 


3E. . . . 


L. 


4 E. . . . 


L. 


U.E. . . . 



Combining the two plans, the following 



STAGE DIRECTIONS. 21 

abbreviations and stage directions can be 
used : — 



R. rear, or back. 


R. front. 


L. rear, or back. 


L. front. 


R. C. rear, or back. 


L. C. front 


C rear, or back. 


C. front. 



By comparing the two plans, it will be 
noticed tliat tlie right and left are subdivided 
into right center and left center. 

12. The Tormentors. — The first en- 
trances, right and left, are called the tor- 
mentors. Some writers, however, use 1 E. 
for the first entrance back of the tormentor. 

Very few plays require more than five en- 
trances from the wing. The upper entrances 
are usually the fourth entrances, for full 
stage. 

The terms right and left are taken some- 
times from the actor's right and left hand as 
he faces the audience, sometimes from the 
right and left hand of the spectator. The 
former is the prevailing custom. 

Sometimes P. (Prompter's side) is used for 
right, and 0. P. (opposite Prompter's side) 
for left. 

13. Movement of Characters during the 
Act. — Certain movements of characters on 
the stage are designated as follows : — 

(1.) To go up. 
(2.) To come down. 
(3.) To cross over. 



22 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

14. Going up. — When a cliaracter moves 
towards the back of the stage, he is said to go 
up. 

15. Coming down. — When a character 
moves towards the foot-lights, he is said to 
come down. 

16. Crossing over. — When a character 
goes from one side of the stage to the other, 
he is said to cross over. 

These terms may be combined with the ab- 
breviations given above to denote the part of 
the stage at which the movement takes place, 
for example : — 

(1.) Coming down C. means moving to- 
wards the front through the centre of the 
stage. 

(2.) Going up R. means moving towards 
the rear on the right hand side. 

(3.) Crosses over E. means that the charac- 
ter is to move towards the right hand side. 

(4.) Crosses over L. C. means that the 
character moves from right to left centre. 

17. Exercise in Stage Movements. — 
The student will find the working out of the 
following directions, with the aid of the dia- 
grams, an excellent method of familiarizing 
himself with the foregoing terms and abbre- 
viations : — 

A. and B. represent two characters. 
A. and B. discovered at rise. 
A. sitting at L. of table E. C. 



STAGE DIRECTIONS. 23 

B. standing at E,. of desk near L. 3 E. 

A. rises and crosses over to L. C. 

B. comes down L. 

A. and B. go up to L. U. E. 
A. and B. cross over to E. 3 E. 

A. goes up to D. C. 

B. comes down R. 

A. comes down to L. 1 E. 

B. crosses over to L. 

A. and B. cross over to E,. 1 E. 

A. goes up to D. L. C. 

B. crosses over and goes up to L. 3 B. 
A. and B. come down C. 

A. and B. go up, A. L. and B. E. 

Exeunt A. and B., A. D. L. C, B. R E. C. 

18. Incidents. — Almost every significant 
event that takes place in tlie course of a play 
will call for some stage direction. Especially 
is this tlie case when several characters are 
supposed to do the same thing simultane- 
ously. Of this class are the expressions, 
" ladies moving to and fro," — " ladies all 
choke," etc., in the passage above quoted. 
As the number of things that may happen on 
the stage is practically infinite, no general 
rules can be given. 

The beginner should be cautioned against 
cumbering his manuscript with detailed de- 
scriptions, or with directions for trivial and 
unimportant actions. 

19. Minor Business. — Among the less 



24: THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

important stage directions may be reckoned 
those pertaining to : — 

(1.) Asides and Aparts.^ 

(2.) Dumb show. 

(3.) Quick, slow, and half -slow curtain. 

(4.) Change of scene, whistle scene, etc. 

(5.) Music. 

(6.) Lights up. 

(7.) Lights down. 

(8.) Noises outside. 

(9.) Gestures. 

(10.) Facial expression. 

(11.) Tone of voice. 

Of these the first is indispensable, the sec- 
ond, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh and 
eighth, almost so. All of these should be 
incorporated in the manuscript. The rest 
must be left to the discretion of the play- 
wright, who may, in most instances, save time 
and labor, by leaving them in turn to the 
imagination of the actor. 

1 See Chapter xsii. 15 and 16. 



CHAPTER y. 

STAGE PLANS. 

1. Interiors. — In stage language an inte' 
rior means an in-door scene. 

Tlie plans given below are subject to nu- 
merous modifications, according to the nature 
of the interior called for by the play. 

Plan No. 1. 



BACK CLOTH or DROP 




R.C. 



PBOSCENILTM. 




The terms right and left, as used in these 
plans, are taken with reference to one stand- 
ing on the stage and facing the audience. 

2. Doors and Windo-ws. — In the above 
plan the entrances can be either doors or win- 
dows. In the proper sense of the word, a 
window is not an entrance, though it may be 
used to enter or leave the stage. 



26 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

3. Number of Entrances. — The torment- 
ors, i. e., the entrances E. 1 E. and L. 1 E., do 
not form a part of the room proper, and are 
used exclusively for enters and exits. 

The three entrances at rear are usually 
doors. If the plan calls for a number of win- 
dows, they will be marked as windows in the 
stage-setting. For example, if the L. 3 E. is 
a window, the description will read as fol- 
lows : Dooi^s L.l,2& U. E. ; window L. 3 E, 

Plan No. 2. 




4. Plan with Run. — In Plan No. 2, the 
space between H. 2 E. and flat near C. is a 
run. The dotted line shows where the run 
joins the stage. At the back is a flat from 
which a set scene, with door at C, projects 
upon the stage. The run may be used for the 
following purposes : — 

(1.) It may be a glimpse into a conserva- 
tory. 

(2.) It may be a stairway with adjoining 
hall. 



STAGE PLANS. 27 

(3.) It may be a small boudoir with a few 
steps leading to it. 

A small recess in an interior should always 
be a run, or be elevated above the main floor 
of the stage. 

What has been said of Plan No. 1 will also 
apply to Plan No. 2. 

Back or side cloths in interiors are in- 
tended to conceal the walls of the stage. 

A great number of plans for interiors 
should be drawn by the student, bearing the 
following rules in mind : — 

(a.) Keception or ball rooms require the 
full stage, with three large entrances at back. 

{b.) Eooms in which the action of the play 
requires the presence of several characters 
should be set from 1 E. to 3 E. 

(c.) No interior — excepting for short 
scenes ^ — should be limited to 1 E. 

(d.) Interiors for small parlor, laborer's cot- 
tage, boudoir, etc., should be set between 1 E. 
and 2 E. 

(e.) Arches and portieres should always be 
practicable, unless a portiere is intended as a 
hiding-place only. 

(/.) Avoid using the tormentors, as they 
lead to nowhere. 

{g.) Let the student " furnish " the above 
interiors, thus preparing scene-plots.^ 

^ See Chapter xxii. 6. 

2 Directions for scene-plots will be given at the end of 
the next chapter. 



CHAPTER VI. 

STAGE PLANS {continued). 

1, Exteriors. — An exterior is an out-door 
scene. 

The plans given below are very elemen- 
tary. Stage-settings for exteriors can be very 
elaborate, representing not only street and 
garden scenes, but ocean and mountain pic- 
tures, with, many practicable features. 





Plan No. 1. 




/ BACK CLOTH -GARDEN PERSPECTIVE. \ 


/b.ue.. 

/ J* TREE 
/B 4-E ^ 

/ |*ttie:es 

/k.3E.^ 
/ 5* THEE S. 
/b.2E._^ 
/ ^ TREES. 

/ 1» ie""* 


S HDVSE.V 
"KOT VRACTICABLeY 

[GARDEN SCENE.] 

SETHOVSE. \ 
WiACTlCABLEN 

•PPOSCTENIUM. 


L.3E. \ 

\ DOOl^. \ 
^.E.\ 

T..1E. \ 


' \ 


— / 



2. General Remarks. — The two exteriors 
represented in these plans differ in many re- 
spects. The following are the principal points 
the student should notice : — 

(1.) Both settings have back cloths. 

(2.) Plan No. 1, at left, has two houses, 
one of which is a set house with practicable 
4oor. 



STAGE PLANS. 29 

(3.) Plan Ko. 2, at rigM and left, lias rows 
of houses, none of which are practicable. 

(4.) Plan Noo 1, at right, has no flats, the 
trees between the entrances being wood-cuts 
pushed on the stage from the wings. 

Plan No. 2. 



JBACK CLOTH ~ STREET PERSPECTIVE- 




L.UX. 



[STPEET SCENE.] 



pposcEisrruM. 




3. Additional Abbreviations for Stage- 
Settings. — The student being now familiar 
with elementary stage-settings, may, if he 
chooses, make use of the following abbrevia- 
tions in the stage directions : — 

D. r., door in flat running back of stage. 
C. D. F., centre door in the flat. 

E. D. P., right door in the flat. 
L. D. P., left door in the flat. 
R. D., right door. 

L. D., left door. 

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, G., 1st, 2d, 3d, 4th, 5th groove. 

4. Material for Scene -Plots for the 
above Interiors and Exteriors. — Let the 
student refer back to plan No. 1 (interior), and 



30 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

locate in the stage-setting the different pieces 
of furniture mentioned below : — 

For Interior Plan No. 1. 

(1.) C, large table. 
(2.) E. of table, arm-chair. 
(3.) L. of table, two chairs. 
(4.) In flats between E. C. and C; and C. 
and L. C, small stands. 

(5.) In flat L. 2 E., fireplace. 

(6.) In fiat E. 2 E., sofa. 

(7.) L. C. towards front, settee. 

(8.) E. C. towards rear, screen. 

(9.) L. C. rear corner, easel with picture. 

(10.) E. C. front; near C, piano. 

For Interior Plan No. 2. 

(1.) In fiat, at back, from C. to L. (in the 
centre), grate, with ornamental mantelpiece. 

(2.) At both ends of said fiat, large arm- 
chairs. 

(3.) In run, between E. 2 E. and flat stand- 
ing out from E. C. back, shrubs, flowers^ etc. 

(4.) In flat L. 2 E., piano with stool in 
front of it. 

(5.) E. C. front, small table. 

(6.) E. of table, chair. 

(7.) E. 3 E., screen seen among the flowers. 

(8.) On the run E. 3 E., statues seen amid 
the shrubs. 

(9.) C. towards left, sofa. 

(10.) Chairs near E. 1 E. and L. 1 E. 



STAGE PLANS. 31 

For Exterior Plan No. 1. 

(1.) From E. U. E. to L. U. E. at back, a 
low stone wall, with gate in centre. 

(2.) In front of set house L. 2 E., mat and 
carpet going up the steps. 

(3.) Near R. 2 E., garden bench. 

(4.) At R. of bench, garden chair. 

(5.) B. C. near back, large set tree. 

(6.) Set trees, or shrubs, L. C. near L. 3 E. 

For Exterior Plan No. 2. 

(1.) Small fountain near E. 2 E. 

(2.) Vender's stall near L. 3 E. 

(3.) C, large lamp-post. 

(4.) Signs, hanging from houses, L. and E. 

(5.) Set trees before houses, in flats E. 1 
E. and E. U. E. 

5. Property Plots. — Let the student read 
one act of any play and make out a property 
plot of the act, by enumerating every object 
mentioned as present during the entire act 



CHAPTEE VII. 

DIFFERENT KINDS OF PLAYS. 

Tragedy. 

1. No Systematic Classification. No sat- 
isfactory method of classifying the drama is 
in existence among English-speaking peoples. 
For the working playwright this is perhaps 
of no very serious consequence. If his play 
is a success, it matters little to him what 
name is applied to it. Nevertheless, occasions 
arise when even the playwright would find it 
convenient to indicate the character of his pro- 
duction by a single word instead of by a long 
circumlocution ; while for critic and manager 
the defect is a matter of never-ceasing embar- 
rassment and perplexity. 

2. Two Principal Classes. — The growth 
of the drama in all civilized countries has re- 
sulted in the development of two classes of 
plays, distinguished by certain general marks 
of divergence. One class deals with the seri- 
ous aspects of life, and is called tragedy ; the 
other with the laughable aspects, and is called 
coTYiedy. 

In the early history of the stage, while the 
dramatic forms were simple and criticism as 



DIFFERENT KINDS OF PLAYS. 33 

yet undeveloped, tlie terms above given could 
be used with accuracy and significance ; but 
as the development of the drama continued, 
the two classes showed a tendency, in some 
cases, to merge one into the other, until the 
distinction lost much of its earlier impor- 
tance, while the rise of formal criticism cre- 
ated arbitrary standards where no essential 
distinction existed. To illustrate : the trage- 
dies of ^schylus deal solely with the serious 
side of life, the comedies of Aristophanes, 
solely with its follies. In the tragedies of 
Shakespeare we find abundance of comedy, 
and in his comedies, especially in the Merchant 
of Venice, AlVs Well that Ends Well, and 
As You Like It, scenes that might well form 
part of tragedy. For examples of the influ- 
ence of criticism in giving arbitrary names, 
mention may be made of Dante's Divina Com- 
media and Corneille's Le Cid. 

3. The Distinction Valuable. — Notwith- 
standing the truth of the facts just stated, 
the traditional distinction between tragedy 
and comedy must always be a valuable one 
for the critic. In the first place, it is a nat- 
ural distinction, a direct result of the two- 
fold character of life itself ; and in the second 
place, it is already thoroughly impressed upon 
the popular consciousness. Whatever classi- 
fications are made, therefore, it will be advisa- 
ble to use the common division into comedy 
and tragedy as a convenient starting-point for 
the discussion. 



S4 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

4. Different Classes of Plays. — The difr 

ferent kinds of plays which will be treated 
in this chapter are the following : ^ — 

(1.) Tragedy. 

(2.) Comedy. 

(3.) The drame, or Schauspiel. 

(4.) The piece. \ The society 

(5.) The emotional drama. ) play. 

(6.) The melodrama. 

(7.) The spectacular drama. 

(8.) The comedy drama. 

(9.) The musical drama. 
(10.) The farce comedy, or farcical comedy. 
(11.) The farce. 
(12.) The burlesque. 
(13.) The burletta. 
(14.) The comedietta. 

5. Tragedy. — The general character of 
tragedy, as that species of drama which pre- 
sents the serious aspect of life, has already 
been suggested. As it is the business of the 
drama in general to portray the clash of in- 
dividual interests,^ it is the peculiar function 

1 No mention is made of the old English miracle and 
mystery plays, as they are no longer seen upon the stage 
either in the original form or in imitations. (For full 
particulars regarding them, see Ward's or Collier's His- 
tory of the Drama). The same remark will not apply to 
the Spanish Comedias de capa y de espada, the Italian 
Commedie delV arte, and many other examples from the 
European stage, but their connection with the English 
drama of to-day is too remote to entitle them to consid- 
eration here. 

2 See Chapter xv. 1. 



DIFFERENT KINDS OF PLAYS. 35 

of tragedy to represent this conflict as termi- 
nating fatally, that is, as resulting generally 
in the death of one or more of the contending 
characters ; or at any rate, as involving a 
struggle of a stern and momentous character, 
from which escape is possible only through 
the intervention of extraordinary agencieSo 
Hence tragedy calls for characters of un- 
wonted strength of will and depth of serious- 
ness, events of great significance, and an ele- 
vated style of diction, generally verse. 

6. Comedy. — Comedy is the converse ot 
tragedy. In it the conflict is always recon- 
ciled at the end and all disasters averted. 
The conflict itself, however serious it may 
seem during the progress of the play, turns 
out at the end to have been a case of much 
ado about nothing. The characters are either 
not serious in their aims, or if they are, the 
objects for which they are striving are shown 
to be worthless. In comedy some one is al- 
ways represented as pursuing a bubble. At 
the close, the bubble bursts, and with good- 
natured submission the deluded pursuer ac- 
knowledges his folly. It follows that while 
in tragedy the characters are mostly taken 
from the higher walks of life, in comedy the 
average man is the central figure. The style 
is familiar and colloquial, and generally prose. 

7. Theme, Characters, Plot, and Style. — 
From the preceding paragraphs it appears 
that the principal lines of distinction between 



36 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

tragedy and comedy are to be sought for in 
the theme, the characters, the plot, and the 
style. 

8. The Theme. — By the theme of a play 
is meant the problem, social, moral, political, 
religious, psychological, or whatever it may 
be, which the play presents for the consider- 
ation of the spectator. It is generally agreed 
that the drama should not be didactic, that 
is, should not directly teach anything, but 
this by no means enjoins the dramatist from 
bringing before us questions of momentous 
human interest and so treating them that the 
rightful solution is suggested if not demon- 
strated. 

It should not be inferred from what has 
been said that the playwright must select a 
theme at the outset, and deliberately build 
his play upon it. He may be conscious of his 
theme, or he may work unconsciously and find 
with astonishment, when his work is over, 
that a theme has grown up under his hand 
unbidden. A thoughtful man, with well-de- 
fined views of the problems of human exist- 
ence, can hardly present any picture of life or 
society without giving it somewhere the im- 
press of his own thought, and making it some- 
how the vehicle of his own ideals.^ 

1 This line of thoiiglit cannot be pursued further here. 
It is perhaps needless to say that it involves some of 
the most hotly contested questions in dramatic criticism, 
more particularly the morality of the drama, and the 



DIFFERENT KINDS OF PLAYS. 37 

The theme in comedy is naturally of less 
importance than in tragedy, and in the lighter 
forms may not appear at all. Still even here 
a master-hand will manage to suggest in a 
striking manner current social or political 
problems. 

On the characters in general, and on the 
plot, see §§4, 5, 6. The style is properly 
a matter of rhetoric, and is brought in here 
only as a convenient element for purposes of 
classification. 

9. Kinds of Tragedy. — The principal 
Tarieties of tragedy are : — 

(1.) The ancient classic tragedy. 
(2.) The modern classic tragedy. 
(3.) The romantic tragedy. 
(4.) The mediated tragedy. 

10. Meaning of the ^Word " Classic.'' — 
The word classic, as applied to the drama, is 
used in several different senses, which it will 
be well to distinguish at the outset. It 
means : — 

(1.) Belonging to the Greek or Latin liter- 
atures at the time of their ascendancy. 

(2.) Written under the influence of formal 
rules of criticism. In this sense the word is 
almost wholly confined to the French drama 
produced while the laws of the three unities ^ 

objectivity of the dramatist. Upon the latter point an 
interesting- essay naay be found (presenting the obverse 
of the argument) in the introduction to Alfred Austin's 
Prince Lucifer. 

1 See Chapter xv. 11. 



&8 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

were considered of force, but it has been ap^ 
plied to the period of French influence in 
Germany, England, and Italy. The classic 
drama par excellence belongs to the seven- 
teenth century. Its influence lingered until 
the opening of this century, when the Eoman- 
ticists, chiefly with the aid of Victor Hugo 
and Dumas jpere, broke over the classic rules 
and ushered in a new order of drama. 

(3.) The middle (or G-reek) stage in the de- 
velopment of art according to Hegel. The 
whole series is symbolic — classic — romantic. 
This is a highly technical use of the term, and 
plays no part in the present discussion. It is 
mentioned here simply because it is sometimes 
confused with the foregoing. 

(4.) The best of its kind in any literature. 
Thus we say of any fine piece of literature 
which is certain to live, that it " has become 
one of the classics of the language." 

11. Meaning of the "Word '' Romantic. '^ 
The following meanings are in use for the 
word romantic : — 

(1.) Belonging to the literary movement 
directed against the French rules of criticism. 

(2.) The third (or Christian) stage in the 
Hegelian system, as explained above. 

(3.) Characterized by great freedom of im- 
agination and treatment, as, e. g., the Shake- 
spearean drama. 

12. Ancient Classic Tragedy. — This re- 
fers almost exclusively to the Greek tragedy^ 



DIFFERENT KINDS OF PLAYS. 39 

and need not be dwelt upon. The Greek 
tragedy was imitated by the Romans and the 
Italians, and finds occasional imitators at the 
present day. The most notable instance of 
the latter is perhaps Swinburne, in his Ata^ 
lanta in Calydon. 

13. Theme, Characters, Plot, and Style. 
(1.) Theme. The common theme of all 

Greek tragedies is the supremacy of fate over 
all things, both human and divine. 

(2.) Characters. The principal characters 
are heroes, royal personages, and gods. 

(3.) Plot. The story was uniformly taken 
from legend or mythology.^ The close was 
generally a death (which never took place on 
the stage), but this catastrophe was sometimes 
averted, and the ending made a happy one. 
The unities, as they were afterwards called, 
were unknown to the Greek dramatists as 
rules of criticism, and were observed, when 
observed at all, purely by accident. 

(4.) Style. Verse. 

14. Modern Classic Tragedy. — This has 
been already sufficiently explained in § 10 (2), 
above. Unless otherwise specified, it is com- 
monly understood to refer to the tragedies of 
Corneille and Racine. 

15. Theme, Characters, Plot, and Style. 

^ A single instance of a trag-edy in which orig-inal plot 
and characters were introduced, namely, Ag-athon's 
Flower, is mentioned by Aristotle. Unfortunately this 
play has not come down to us. 



40 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

(1.) Theme. The chief defect of the clas^ 
sic tragedy is that (being an imitation of the 
Greek) it has no living theme of its own. 

(2.) Characters. Same as above. The 
characters are mostly conventional types. 

(3.) Flat. The stories are mostly taken 
from Greek and Latin literature. The uni- 
ties are scrupulously observed, and the close 
must be a death. No comedy element is 
admitted. 

(4.) Style. Heroic verse. Diction more or 
less declamatory and artificial. 

Classic tragedy has never thrived on the 
English stage. Among the few examples 
worth mentioning are Addison's Cato, John- 
son's Irene, and Byron's Sardanajpalus. 

16. Romantic Tragedy. — The term ro- 
mantlG is applied in a general way to any 
modern drama written without regard to the 
Prench rules of criticism, and characterized 
by the free play of passion and imagination. 

17. Theme, Characters, Plot, and Style. 
(1.) Theme. Almost any human passion 

may be used as a theme in romantic tragedy. 
Love always plays a prominent and generally 
a leading part in the tragic conflict. 

(2.) Characters. The characters may be 
taken from any rank or station. Great stress 
is laid upon character-drawing. 

(3.) Plot. Incidents are selected which 
will best bring out peculiarities of character. 
The conclusion is uniformly a death. Comic 



DIFFERENT KINDS OF PLAYS. 41 

incidents are freely interspersed. The unities 
are disregarded at will. 

(4.) Style. Verse in the serious parts ; 
verse or prose in the comedy passages. Great 
use is made of humor and pathos, by the com- 
bination of which subtle effects are attained 
unknown to the classic tragedy. 

From the English point of view, such 
plays as Frou-Frou and Camille are roman- 
tic tragedies. As will appear later on, how- 
ever, the French have other terms by which 
to designate plays of this class. 

18. Mediated Tragedy. — There is a com- 
mon type of drama which seems not to belong 
to either tragedy or comedy, or rather to be- 
long to both at once. The play as a whole is 
of a serious character, and seems tending to 
a tragic catastrophe, but at the conclusion the 
disaster is averted and all ends happily. This 
class of plays is known in Germany as Versoh- 
nungsdrama (reconciliation-drama). ]N'o cor- 
responding term exists in English. Perhaps 
none that might be suggested would be likely 
to meet Math universal acceptance, but the 
expression mediated tragedy seems as little 
objectionable as any, and will be used in this 
book wherever this class of plays is referred 
to as a class. 

This is a convenient classification from a 
theoretical standpoint, because the nature of 
the conclusion has an intimate connection 
with the rest of the drama ; but as a practical 



42 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

designation to indicate the style of play in- 
tended, it is of no great importance. Speci- 
mens of mediated tragedy may be found in 
both the ancient classic and the modern ro- 
mantic drama ; consequently no generally 
applicable remarks can be made regarding 
themes, etc. As the mediated tragedy is the 
connecting link between tragedy and comedy, 
its subdivisions may properly form the sub- 
ject-matter of a separate chapter. 



CHAPTEE yill. 

DIFFERENT KINDS OF PLATS (continued)o 

Mediated Tragedy. 

1. Subdivisions. — The general character 
of mediated tragedy was pointed out in the 
preceding chapter. The most important 
are: — 

(1.) The d7'ame, or SchauspieL 
(2.) The^^ece. 
(3.) The emotional drama. 
(4.) The melodrama. 

Of these the second and third are properly 
divisions of the first. 

2. The Drame. — No English equivalent 
for this term is in use. The German Schau- 
spiel, mostly used in a loose way to mean any 
sort of drama whatever, is often restricted to 
this particular species. 

The general characteristic of the drame is 
the predominance of the emotional element. 
The following varieties maybe distinguished: 

(1.) The romantic drame. 

(2.) The social drame. 

3. The Romantic Drame. — The best ex» 
amples of the romantic drame to be found on 
the American stage are what are commonly 



44 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

known as ^'frontier dramas." Familiar in- 
stances are Davy Crockett, Ranch 10, and The 
Danites. It is distinguished by prominent 
emotional elements and a tendency to senti- 
mentality, combined with, rapid movement of 
incident. 

4. Theme, Characters, Plot, and Style. 

(1.) Theme. Generally of little importance. 
The value of personal strength, courage, and 
manliness is most frequently touched upon. 

(2.) Characters. The characters are of a 
bold, free, and dashing type, and are taken, 
if from the past, from an age of personal 
bravery and gallantry, or, if from the present, 
either from some nationality in which such 
qualities prevail, or from a stage of society 
where the presence of law and order has not 
yet been recognized. 

(3.) Plot. The romantic drame calls for 
striking incidents, strong situations, ^ and 
daring escapades. Eapidity of movement 
through a succession of quickly-culminating 
climaxes ^ is the most striking characteristic 
of the plot. The grand climax ^ is not infre- 
quently made a spectacular effect. 

(4.) Style. Almost uniformly prose, of an 
impassioned and sometimes inflated order. 
Broad effects are aimed at in both humor and 
pathos, and rapid transitions are made from 

1 See Chapter x. 7. 

2 See Chapters xvi. 6 and xviii. 9. 
^ See Chapter xix. 



DIFFERENT KINDS OF PLAYS. 45 

one to the other. " Sentiments " are fre- 
quently inserted in the lines. 

A sentiment is a striking thought intended 
to appeal to the sensibilities of the audience 
(as the sense of justice, fair play, honor, pa- 
triotism, etc.), and carefully worded in lan- 
guage more or less poetical. " Eags are royal 
raiment when worn for virtue's sake," is a 
well-known sentiment from Bartley Camp- 
bell's White Slave. In this country a good 
sentiment rarely fails to win a round of ap- 
plause, but in the French theatres (excepting 
those of a " popular " character) such bits of 
declamation frequently call out hisses. 

The sentiment differs from the "gag" in 
that it is meant to be taken seriously, and is 
used but once in the play ; whereas the gag 
has a comic effect, which grows with each rep- 
etition. 

6. The Social Drame. — This is preemi- 
nently the drama of to-day, the outgrowth of 
the nineteenth century civilization of which 
it is a picture. It may be considered under 
two distinct classes : — 

(1.) Th.Q piece. 

(2.) The emotional drama. 

6. The Pifece. — There is unfortunately no 
English term corresponding to this Erench 
title, although the English '' piece," often ap- 
plied uo plays in general, might well enough 
be appropriated for the purpose. The piece is 
awti-xi^uished by the great prominence of the 



46 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

comic (of an elevated character), which 13 
used to relieve the intense emotional features 
of the play. 

7. Theme, Characters, Plot, and Style. 
(1.) Theme. The theme of the piece should 

be some topic of the day, social or politicaL 
It must be a topic capable of being viewed in 
a light both serious and humorous. Any so- 
cial movement in which the people are seri- 
ously interested, but which has developed 
abuses that may be exposed or laughed at, is 
a good theme for the piece. Love is the stand- 
ing theme of all plays of this class. 

(2.) Characters. The characters are those 
of the society of the day. 

(3.) Plot. The serious incidents are of a 
" quiet " order, but powerful. The comic in- 
cidents are numerous, and at times give the 
play almost the effect of the better class of 
light comedy. 

(4.) Style. The style is as nearly as possi- 
ble an imitation of the language of every-day 
life. 

8. The Emotional Drama. — This differs 
from the piece chiefly in the greater promi- 
nence accorded to the emotional element. It 
is somewhat further removed also from the 
interests of every-day life. It is less realistic 
and more sentimental. 

9. Theme, Characters, Plot, and Style. 
(1.) Theme. The theme may be the same 

as that of the piece, but is taken more seri- 
ously, although less stress is laid upon it. 



DIFFERENT KINDS OF PLAYS. 47 

(2.) Characters. The characters are taken 
from modern life, but their virtues and vices 
are somewhat exaggerated. The villain ^ and 
the " heavy " ^ characters, in general, play a 
more prominent part than in the piece. 

(3.) Plot. The emotional drama calls for 
powerful situations displaying intense passion 
and emotion. The transition from pathos to 
humor is not so rapid, and need not be so ar- 
tistically brought about as in the piece. 

(4.) Style. The style is less natural than 
that of the piece, especially in the powerful 
situations, where the language is often highly 
poetical. 

Both piece and emotional drama are fre- 
quently spoken of as " society plays.'' 

Although both these plays properly belong 
to mediated tragedy, the conclusion is some- 
times the death of the principal character. 
The circumstances of the death are so man- 
aged, however, that its effect is emotional or 
pathetic rather than tragic. 

10. Melodrama. — The original form of 
melodrama was that of a semi-heroic drama, 
the scenes of which were freely interspersed 
with songs. The musical element has now 
ceased to be a characteristic feature, and the 
name has been appropriated for an exagger- 
ated style of emotional drama. 

11. Theme, Characters, Plot, and Style. 
(1.) Theme. The theme borders nearly on 

^ See Chapter xiii. 16. ^ See Chapter xiii. 9. 



48 THE ART OF PLAYWRITINGo 

that of the romantic drame, but it is treated 
in a strained and unbalanced fashion that robs 
it of its jDroper impressiveness for those who 
are not carried away by their emotions. 

(2.) Characters. The characters are taken 
from all ranks of life. The villain is here in- 
dispensable, and generally takes the form of 
a group of thoroughly vicious characters, who, 
after working great mischief, end by circum- 
venting and destroying one another. 

(3.) JPlot. The plots of melodrama are 
usually of a dark and gloomy character, full 
of startling incidents, bordering closely on the 
improbable. Intrigue and crime furnish the 
necessary complications. 

(4.) Sti/le. By a sort of dramatic license, 
the writer of melodrama is allowed to indulge 
in " gush " and " rant " to an almost unlimited 
extent. Indeed, in most cases, this is the 
only kind of language which harmonizes with 
the extravagant characters and situations. 
In some of the older melodramas the style is 
bombastic and unnatural to such a degree 
that to the reader of the present day it sounds 
like burlesque. Many of the more recent 
melodramas, on the other hand, show an en- 
couraging moderation both in plot and dic- 
tion. 

12. Spectacular Drama. — This is the 
title given to almost any kind of dramatic 
performance which relies for its effects largely 
upon gorgeous scenery, furnishings, parades, 



DIFFERENT KINDS OF PLAYS. 49 

transformation scenes, etc. Melodramas are 
often selected for this purpose, but even com- 
edies of a burlesque character are susceptible 
of such treatment. The French " feries '' 
and the English ^' Christmas pantomimes " 
are species of spectacular dramas ; in fact, all 
performances not operas, requiring an exten- 
sive GOTjps de ballet and gorgeous and fantastic 
costumes, properly fall under the head of 
spectacular. 

12. The Musical Drama. — The libretto of 
the opera is a peculiar kind of drama entirely 
in verse and set to music, or partly in verse 
set to music and partly in prose to be spoken. 
Barring the verse, it does not differ much 
from any other drama, save that the plot is 
sometimes simpler and the action slower than 
would in other cases be allowable. The basis 
for grand opera is usually the romantic 
drame ; for comic opera, light comedy or bur- 
lesque. 



CHAPTEE IX. 

DIFFEEENT KINDS OF PLAYS (cOHttflUed), 

Comedy. 

1. Kinds of Comedy. — The general char- 
acter of comedy has been indicated in a fore- 
going chapter.^ Its kinds are by no means 
so numerous as those of tragedy, nor is it 
so difficult to distinguish between them. 
What has been said regarding classical and 
romantic tragedy will apply to classical and 
romantic comedy, — keeping in mind of 
course the fundamental differeiice between 
comedy and tragedy. It will not be neces- 
sary, therefore, to go into so full details «s ir? 
the preceding chapters. The following are 
the principal types of comedy : -=- 

(1.) Ancient classic comedy. 

(2.) Modern classic comedy. 

(3.) Romantic comedy. 

(4.) The comedy of manners. 

(5.) The comedy drama. 

(6.) The farce comedy or farcical comedy, 

(7.) The farce. 

(8.) The burlesque. 

(9.) Theburletta. 

(10.) The comedietta. 

^ See Chapter vii. d. 



DIFFERENT KINDS OF PLAYS. 51 

2. Ancient Classic Comedy. — In ancient 
Greek comedy it is customary to distinguish 
three different classes or stages : 

(1.) The old comedy, characterized by bit- 
ter personal and political satire. Aristoph- 
anes is the principal representative. 

(2.) The middle comedy, dealing with so- 
ciety rather than politics, and critical rather 
than satirical. Eepresented by fragments of 
the plays of Philippus, Araros, Antiphanes, 
and Alexis. 

(3.) The new comedy, of a thoroughly so- 
cial character, full of conventional episodes 
and stock characters. The great representa- 
tive of this class is Menander. The new 
comedy furnished models for the Latin plays 
of Plautus and Terence, which last were in. 
turn models for early English playwrights. 
Shakespeare's Comedy of Errors, for example, 
is a direct imitation of the Mencechmi of 
Plautus. 

3. Modern Classic and Romantic Com- 
edy. — The observance or non-observance of 
the three unities is the only ground for this 
division. When the romantic movement swept 
away the ancient critical barriers, comedy 
naturally shared in the liberties accorded to 
tragedy. 

4. Comedy of Manners. — In the comedy 
of manners especial attention is paid to char- 
acter-drawing, and each character is made the 
representative of a certain trait or passion. 



52 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

In this way conventional or stock characters 
are developed, such as the dissipated son, the 
rich and miserly uncle, the cruel father, the 
intriguing servant, and so on, which are used 
over and over again. Comedies of manners 
are of a quiet and domestic character and 
deal with the follies of society. The term 
has about gone out of use, except when refer- 
ring to the comedy of the last century. 

6. The Comedy Drama. — The most dig- 
nified form of comedy is the comedy drama 
or comic drama. It may, in fact, so nearly 
approach the piece as hardly to be distin- 
guished from it. It does not admit, however 
(as t\iQ piece does) incidents of a really tragic 
character. Whatever in the comedy drama 
seems to be serious must in the end turn out 
to have been a mistake. There can be no 
death, no misfortune which cannot be made 
right at the conclusion. The humor must be 
of a refined order, and arise from manifesta- 
tion of character rather than from arrange- 
ment of situation and incident.^ 

6. The Farce Comedy. — The farce com- 
edy is a transition stage from the comedy 
drama to the farce. Considerable attention 
is still paid to the characterization, but the 

^ For perfect models of refined comedy dram^a, the 
student cannot do better than turn to the plays of Emile 
Augier. Anything more perfect in construction and in 
delineation of character, or more delicate in humor, can- 
not he found in any language. 



DIFFERENT KINDS OF PLATS. 53 

incidents and tlie lines fiirnisli most of the 
entertainment. 

7. The Farce. — In the farce almost the 
sole reliance is placed in the plot and the 
lines. Laughable incidents tread npon one 
another's heels, and the lines are filled with 
witticisms which have little fitness to the 
characters uttering them. The characters 
are arbitrarily exaggerated and overdrawn 
for the sake of comic effect. A farce which 
aims solely at exciting boisterous laughter 
from beginning to end is called a screaming 
farce. The farce is generally short. 

8. The Burlesque. — The burlesque is a 
kind of dramatic parody. It may parody 
either some well-known play (or type of 
plays), or some familiar institution of soci- 
ety. Of the latter class two kinds are com- 
monly distinguished : — 

(1.) That in which personages of high rank 
or culture are represented as acting in a triv- 
ial way. 

(2.) That in which insignificant characters 
are represented as performing acts pertaining 
to heroic personages. 

9. The Burletta. — This term, which prop- 
erly means a small joke, is sometimes applied 
to short farces built on very slight plots. 

10. The Comedietta. — Any very short 
comedy may be termed a comedietta, but the 
term generally implies a more quiet move- 
ment and more care in character-sketching 



54 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

than the farce. In this sense, a comedietta 
is a miniature comedy drama. 

11. Recapitulation and Illustrations. — 

The following table brings together the con- 
tents of the foregoing chapters in their 
proper relations, with illustrations of the dif- 
ferent kinds of plays mentioned. 

I. TRAGEDY. 

(1.) a. Ancient classic (with catastrophe). 
JElectra of Sophocles. 

b. Ancient classic (mediated). Suppliants 
of ^schylus. 

(2.) Modern classic, Corneille's Cinna; 
Addison's Cato. 

(3.) Romantic. Shakespeare's Macbeth ; 
Schiller's Maria Stuart ; Calderon's El Ma- 
gico prodigioso ; Manzoni's II Conte Carma- 
gnola ; Victor Hugo's Eernani ; Sardou's 
Theodora. 

II. MEDIATED TRAGEDY. 

(1.) a. The romantic drame. Miller's The 
Danites ; Bulwer's Richelieu ; Schiller's Wih 
helm. Tell. 

b. The social drame; including (2) and (3) 
below. 

(2.) The piece. Bronson Howard's The 
Henrietta; Dumas' Denise ; Feuillet's Pari- 
sian Romance. 

(3.) The emotional drama. Sardou's Fe- 
dora ; Feuillet's Roman d^un jeune homme 



DIFFERENT KINDS OF PLATS. 55 

pauvre ; Bronson Howard's Banker's Daugh- 
ter ; Gillette's Held by the Enemy. 

(4.) The melodrama. Wills's The Silver 
King; Dennery's Two Orjphans ; Bartley 
Campbell's My Partner. 

(5.) Spectacular drama. Bartley Cainp= 
bell's White Slave ; Bronson Howard's Shen- 
andoah (of a higher order) ; Around the World 
in Eighty Days ; Clio ; Adonis. 

(6.) Musical drama. 

The libretto of musical drama can cover 
all forms of tragedy and comedy, conse- 
quently it is hardly worth while to give illus~ 
trations. 

III. COMEDY. 

(1.) Ancient classic. 

a. Greek, Old comedy. The Birds of Aris- 
tophanes. 

b. Greek, Middle comedy. Philippus, Ara- 
ros, Antiphanes, and Alexis (Fragments). 

c. Greek, New comedy. Menander, Diphi- 
lus, Philemon (Fragments). 

d. Latin. Rudens of Plautus, Fhormio of 
Terence. 

(2.) Modern classic. Moliere's Tartuffe ; 
Eacine's Les Plaideurs. 

(3.) Comedy of manners. Sheridan's School 
for Scandal ; Goldoni's Le Donne Curiose. 

(4.) Romantic comedy. 

a. Comedy drama. Bronson Howard's 
Young Mrs. Winthrop ; Mackaye's Hazel 



56 THE ART OF PLAY WRITING. 

Kirke ; Burnett and Gillette's Esmeralda ; 
De Mille and Belasco's The Wife. 

b. Farce comedAj. Bronson Howard's Sara^ 
toga ; Gilbert's Engaged ; Daly's A Night 
Off; Gillette's The Professor. 

c. Farce.^ Tom Taylor's A Blighted Being ; 
Hennequin's Pink Dominos ; Gilbert's Tom 
Cobb ; Morton's Box and Cox ; Hawtrey's 
I'he Private Secretarjj. 

d. Burlesgue. Durivage's Lady of the Li- 
ons. 

e. Burletta. Boucicanlt's Lover by Proxy. 

f. Comedietta. Angler's Post Scriptum ; 
Bronson Howard's Old Love Letters; How- 
ells's Elevator. 

^ Artistically-constructed farces are not common in 
this country. The name is often incorrectly applied to 
such unclassifiable jumbles of song and dance, horse-play 
and low comedy as The Rag Baby, Tin Soldier, Skipped 
by the Light of the Moon, Photos, We. Us, and Co, etc. 



CHAPTEE X. 

THE PARTS OF A PLAY. 

1. Acts. — Most plays are divided into from 
two to five main divisions, called acts. 

2. Divisions of the Acts. — The acts are 
further divided into : — 

(1.) Scenes. 
(2.) Tableaux. 
(3.) Situations. 

3. Definition of an Act. — An act is a 
division of a play marked at its close by the 
falling of the curtain and the suspension of 
the action. 

4. Entr'acte. — The interval between the 
acts is termed entr'acte. No English equiva- 
lent for the word is in good usage. 

6. Scene. — The shifting of scenery dur- 
ing the progress of an act brings about a 
change of scene, using the word in the Eng- 
lish sense.^ 

6. Tableau. — A tableau is a division of 
an act marked by a momentary descent of 
the curtain. It frequently implies some spec- 
tacular effect. 

1 On the French sta^e, a new scene is introduced by 
every important enter* 



58 THE ART OF PLATWRITING. 

The word tableau is also used with refer- 
ence to a stage picture or grouping of charac- 
ters at the close of an act. 

7. Situation. — This term has various 
meanings : — 

(1.) It is sometimes used with reference to 
any striking incident in the play. 

(2.) It is sometimes used as an equivalent 
for climax} 

(3.) It frequently corresponds to the French 
word scene} 

The terms scene and situation are some- 
times used as synonyms. Thus we may speak 
either of a " strong scene " or a " strong situ- 
ation.'^ The word situation, however, refers 
properly to the moment of greatest suspense ; 
scene, to the whole progress of the incident. 

8. Number of Acts. — No fixed rule 
can be given for the number of acts into 
which a play should be divided. The old di- 
vision into five acts, a tradition handed down 
from the Koman stage, is no longer observed 
with any uniformity. The following table 
shows the prevailing tendency at the present 
time : — 

(1.) Tragedies, five acts. 

(2.) Eomantic drames and melodramas, five 
acts. 

(3.) Emotional dramas, pieces, and society 
dramas, four or five acts. 

(4.) Comedy dramas, four acts. 

^ See Chapter xvi. 6. 

* See footnote, in this chapter, under 5. 



THE PARTS OF A PLAY. 59 

(5.) Comedies of manners, five acts. 

(6.) Comedies of incidents, three or four 
acts. 

(7.) Farce comedies, three acts. 

(8.) Farces, one, two, or three acts. 

(9.) Spectacular plays, five acts, usually 
divided into tableaux. 

(10.) Libretto for grand opera, five acts, 
sometimes with tableaux. 

(11.) Libretto for oj^era comique, three or 
four acts. 

(12.) Libretto for comic opera, three (some- 
times two) acts. 

(13.) Burlesques, with or without music, 
one to five acts. 

(14.) " Curtain raisers," whether farces or 
bits of true comedy, invariably one act. 

9. Length of Acts. — As a general rule, 
the acts should be of about equal length, but 
the canon of the Sanskrit drama, i. e., that the 
play shall resemble the end of the cow's tail, 
the acts diminishing gradually to the close, is 
not without its advantage. As the entire 
time of actual performance should not much 
exceed two hours, the average length of act 
for different classes of plays will be about as 
follows : — 

(1.) Length of five-act plays. Twenty- 
five minutes to each act. A better distribu- 
tion of time would be thirty-five minutes foi- 
the first act ; fifteen for the fifth act ; twenty- 
five each for the remaining acts. This gives 
a total of two hours and five minutes. 



60 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

(2.) Length of four-act plays. Thirty min- 
utes to each act. If the length is to be va- 
ried, let the first and third acts be the long- 
est. In that case, act first should take not 
more than thirty-five minutes ; act third not 
more tlian forty minutes, leaving for act sec- 
ond thirty minutes, and for act fourth twenty 
minutes. Total, two hours and five minutes. 

(3.) Length of three-act plays. — If a three- 
act play is to be produced alone, that is, not 
preceded by a " curtain raiser," the second 
act should be the longest. The following 
proportions are generally observed : Act first, 
forty minutes. Act second, fifty minutes. 
Act third, thirty-five minutes. 

If a three-act play is to be preceded by a 
"curtain-raiser," let the three acts be of 30 
minutes each. 

(4.) Length of two-act plays. Except in 
the case of musical compositions, two-act 
plays are not intended to furnish a full even- 
ing's entertainment. The acts should never 
exceed thirty minutes each. 

(5.) Length of one-act plays. The length 
V^aries according to the purpose for which the 
play is intended. A " curtain-raiser " is usu- 
ally from twenty-five to thirty-five minutes 
long. No one-act play should exceed forty 
minutes. 

10. How to determine the Length of an 
Act. — Considerable experience is required to 
judge from the manuscript of a play how 



THE PARTS OF A PLAY. 61 

long it will take to perform it. Much de- 
pends on the fullness of detail with which the 
business is indicated, as well as on the char- 
acter of the business itself. In spectacular 
plays, where the descriptions of scenery, stage 
movements, etc., are of more importance than 
the lines themselves, and in low comedy 
farces containing a great deal of horse-play, 
no one but an expert in such matters can 
form an exact estimate of the time they will 
occupy. Eor the general run of modern plays, 
however, the following rule will answer most 
purposes : — 

11. Rule for determining the Length of 
a Play. — If the production is to occupy 125 
minutes, the actual number of words in the 
manuscript, including lines, names of charac- 
ters before each speech, stage directious, and 
business of every description, should not ex- 
ceed 20,000, all told, i. e., the length of the 
manuscript should not exceed 160 words for 
each minute of actual performance. The 
number of words, therefore, for each act may 
be found by multiplying the number of min- 
utes required in performance (as given in the 
foregoing tables) by 160. 



CHAPTER XI. 

THE ENTER. 

1. Meaning of the Term. — The appear- 
ance of a character upon the stage during the 
progress of an act constitutes an enter. 

2. Discovered at Rise. — As before ex- 
plained, a character already upon the stage 
at the opening of the act is not said to enter, 
but to be discovered at rise. 

3. The Re-enter. — The term re-enter is 
used instead of enter when a character re- 
appears on the stage shortly after having 
left it. 

It is evident that enter will, in the manu- 
script, answer every purpose of re-enter, but 
the latter expression is useful for the reader 
both to remind him that the character has 
recently appeared on the stage, and to show 
the relative importance of the second appear- 
ance. The term return is sometimes used 
for re-enter. 

4. When the Term Re-enter should be 
used. — The term re-enter should be used : — 

(1.) When a character, having left the 
stage, reappears before any new or striking 
feature of the plot occurs. 



THE ENTER. 68 

(2.) When little importance is to be at- 
tached to the reappearance. 

(3.) A servant may enter at the beginning 
of an act and re-enter several times during its 
progress. 

5. Passing at Rear. — A series of enters 
and re-enters on the part of dumb characters, 
representing the " company " [guests, visi- 
tors, etc.], is best indicated by the phrase 
^'•seen passing at rear/^ or " seen coming on 
and going off at rearP 

When these movements are supposed to 
take place at frequent intervals during the 
scene or act, much repetition may be avoided 
by noting the fact at the beginning. For ex- 
ample, " Sentinel seen passing at rear during 
the scene ; " " Promenaders seen coming on 
and going off at rear at intervals during the 
act." 

6. Appearance. — A character who is seen 
or " exposed " during the play, but does not 
come immediately upon the stage, is said to 
appear. Under this class fall all such move- 
ments as sticking the head in through a win- 
dow, opening and suddenly closing the door 
of a closet or other place of concealment, 
peeping from behind a tree, etc. The term 
is frequently used where a character is seen 
about to enter but pauses momentarily for an 
effective situation before entering. 

Thus, — 



64 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

Hester. Maxwell is dead, and dead men, thank heaven ! 
tell no tales. 

Maxwell. [Appears on threshold.] Hester ! 
Hester. [Screams.] My husband ! 
Enter Maxwell. 

' 7. Management of the Enter. — The 
proper use and management of tlie enters, 
being to a considerable extent governed by 
convention and stage traditions, are among 
the most difficult things which the beginner 
has to learn. The following rules will be 
found to cover the most important cases, 
though much must be left to observation and 
experience. 

(1.) Logical enter. 

(2.) Conventional use of entrances. 

(3.) Lines with enter. 

(4.) Use of the tormentors. 

(5.) Preparing for enter. * 

(6.) Stereotyped forms. 

(7.) Enters prepared for by the plot. 

(8.) Leading up to enter of star. 

(9.) Names mentioned. 

(10.) Double enter. 

(11.) Unnoticed enter. 

8. Logical Enter. — The enter should be 
logical. This means that the playwright 
should not use the stage entrances arbitrarily, 
but should keep in mind the part of the 
house, if an interior, or of the neighborhood, 
if an exterior, to which each entrance leads. 

An entrance used for characters coming 



THE ENTER. 65 

from the street should not, in general, be 
used for those entering from a bedroom or 
dining-room. 

9. Conventional use of Entrances. — 
Let the student note the following : — 

(1.) Characters coming into an interior 
from the street usually enter from the rear. 
It stands to reason, therefore, that a servant, 
answering the door-bell, will pass out one of 
the rear entrances, generally C. D., and re- 
turn ushering in the visitor at the same en- 
trance. 

(2.) The doors at right and left may be 
supposed to lead to, or into, boudoirs, dining- 
rooms, drawing-rooms, library, etc., at the 
pleasure of the writer, though probability is 
always to be consulted. Bedrooms, for ex- 
ample, are usually on the opposite side from 
dining-rooms. 

(3.) Servants coming from the servants' 
quarter should be brought in E. B. or L. D. 

10. Lines with Enter. — The chief action 
of a play takes place in the centre, well down 
stage, i. e., near the footlights. If, therefore, 
enters are made from the rear, the entering 
character will be at some distance from the 
person on the stage, and an awkward period 
of silence may elapse while the former is mak- 
ing his way down to the latter. This diffi- 
culty may be avoided by bringing the char- 
acter in at a right or left entrance, near the 
front, provided this can be logically done ; or 



66 THE ART OF PLATWRITING. 

by furnishing the entering character with a 
speech which will cslttj him over the inter- 
val. The following scene, for example, is 
absolutely unactable : — 

Marion. [Seated at B. front.] Whose voice do I hear ? 
[Enter Cameron L. D. rear.] Robert I [Falls into his 
arms.] 

If possible, Cameron should be brought in 
E. 2 E. If not, the scene may be rearranged 
in some such fashion as this : — 

Marion. [Seated B. front.] Whose voice do I hear ? 
[Bises and starts towards rear. Enter Cameron L. D. rear.] 
Robert ! 

Cameron. [Coming down.] Marion! Come to my 
arms! All is forgiven. [She falls into his arms.] 

11. Use of the Tormentors. — The use 

of the tormentors for entrances should be 
avoided, especially in interiors. If the stage 
represents a room, the further side of the 
tormentor stands for the front wall. Con- 
sequently, in theory, the tormentor leads 
nowhere. As a matter of fact, however, the 
rule is violated about as often as it is ob- 
served. 

12. Preparing for Enter. — Since an enter 
is an essential incident in the plot, all enters 
should be carefully prepared for or led up to. 
The reason for this important rule will be ap- 
parent when we come to study the construc- 
tion of the plot. It will be suflB.cient at this 
point to indicate its practical application. 



THE ENTER. 67 

An enter is prepared for or led up to, when 
the lines, business, or incidents immediately 
preceding are of such a character as to make 
the entrance natural and inevitable. 

The audience may or may not be led to an- 
ticipate the enter. In the former case it is 
customary to announce the approach of the 
character in so many words, as, " By my head, 
here comes the Capulets.'^ If the enter is 
unexpected, none the less must it appear to 
the audience, as soon as it occurs, to be nat- 
ural and to have been inevitable. 

13. Stereotyped Forms. — An unmistak- 
able ear-mark of the young or slipshod play- 
wright is the use of the hackneyed expression, 
"But I hear some one coming," to introduce 
an enter. The phrase itself, however, aside 
from the fact that it is hackneyed, is not es- 
pecially objectionable. What is objection- 
able is its use as a mere device to get upon 
the stage a character that has not been prop- 
erly prepared for by the incidents of the plot. 
A little ingenuity will enable the dramatist 
to dispense with such stereotyped forms. 

14. Enters prepared for by the Plot. — 
The best enters are those which grow natu- 
rally and easily out of the plot and are thus 
led up to by the incidents which precede them 
without any appearance of artifice. The, fol- 
lowing will serve as an illustration : — 

Miss Lester. [At mirror.1 I know Walter will like 
this dress ; blue was bis favorite color. [A ring at the 



68 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

door-bell. ] There he is now ! [Surveys herself in the 
miiror.} 

Enter Tom, Dick, or Harry. 

Walter's entrance later is now well pre- 
pared for. 

15. Leading up to Enter of Star. — The 

enter of tlie most important character of the 
play, especially if the enter is to be followed 
by a strong situation, should be prepared for by 
a series of incidents and references calculated 
to bring the audience to a climax of suspense. 

Thus the " Enter Hamlet " which precedes 
the interview with the queen, in the fourth 
scene, is prepared for throughout the two pre- 
ceding scenes, as follows : — 

(1.) Guildenstern tells Hamlet that the 
queen has sent for him. 

(2.) Polonius enters and makes the same 
announcement. 

(3.) Hamlet replies that he will go, and in 
a soliloquy lets it be understood that the 
scene will be a strong one. 

(4.) In the next scene Polonius tells the 
king that Hamlet is on his way to the closet. 

(5.) Hamlet then appears for a moment 
but goes out with the words " My mother 
stays." 

(6.) Finally, Polonius is shown informing 
the queen that Hamlet " will come straight," 
closing with " I hear him coming." 

All this leads up to an entrance which not a 
few modern playwrights would consider suffi- 



THE ENTER. 69 

ciently heralded by the single speech, " but I 
hear Hamlet coining." 

16. Names mentioned. — In preparing for 
an enter the name of the person expected 
should be explicitly mentioned, unless the 
concealment of it is purposely designed as a 
feature of the plot. 

17. Double Enter. — It is a safe rule 
never to bring two important characters on 
the stage at the same moment. The atten- 
tion of the audience is divided, and, worse 
than all else, the actors themselves have no 
means of knowing for whom the applause, if 
there be any, is intended. 

Strong comic effects, however, may often 
be produced in this way, and sometimes, as 
where two enemies are brought face to face 
from opposite sides of the stage, powerful 
tragic situations. Where no such startling 
effects are aimed at, face-to-face encounters 
should be avoided. 

18. Unnoticed Enter. — Avoid, if pos- 
sible, the hackneyed device of bringing a 
character upon the stage to overhear a con- 
versation ; or if no other resource is at hand, 
at any rate avoid taking the character off 
again without allowing him to be discovered 
by the others upon the stage. Considerable 
latitude in this regard must, of course, be 
permitted in the case of light comedy, bur- 
lesque, or melodrama. 



CHAPTEE XII. 

THE EXIT. 

1. Meaning of the Term. — Any charac- 
ter who leaves the stage during the progress 
of an act, is said to " exit.''^ If two or more 
characters leave the stage at the same time, 
the plural form," exeunt,''^ i% used. 

2. Relation of the Exit to the Lines. — 
Great care must be taken in managing the 
exit. Four different varieties may be distin- 
guished : — 

(1.) The exit to create a situation. 
(2.) The exit without lines. 
(3.) The exit with an apart. 
(4.) The exit with a re-enter. 

3. The Exit to create a Situation. — As 
every important enter usually brings about a 
situation, so every important exit should cre- 
ate some degree of suspense. The object of 
the dramatist should be not merely to get the 
character off the stage, but to make the audi- 
ence feel that he is going off for a purpose, 
and so to make them watch for his return. 
Again, the exit of a character may give those 
who remain an opportunity to do what they 
were restrained from doing by h^-s presence, 



THE EXIT. 71 

or may cause them to throw off some disguise 
maintained for his benefit. Exits of this 
kind require skillful management, and all 
that has been said under this head, of the 
enter, will necessarily apply to the exit. 

4. Exit without Lines. — The exit with- 
out lines is of three kinds : — 

(1.) The exit of a servant, who leaves the 
stage after an unimportant enter, such as 
brmging a card, ushering in a guest, answer- 
ing a bell to receive an order, etc. 

(2.) The exit of some of the guests, when 
characters representing the " company '^ are 
moving on and off the stage. 

(3.) The exit unnoticed by the others on 
the stage and intended to create surprise 
when the absence of the character is discov- 
ered by the further movement of the plot. 

5. Exit with an Apart. — The exit with 
an apart ^ is intended to prepare for an enter, 
and hence, usually, for a situation. In such 
cases the apart must consist of some informa- 
tion of considerable importance. The apart 
may be a " gag,^^ ^ and thus be used with each 
•exit of a character. 

6. Exit with Re-enter. — An exit with an 
immediate re-enter is especially effective in 
light comedies. It may come under the head 
of reappearance. In combination with what 
has been called above the ^'exit to create a 
situation '^ (3), the reappearance may be 

^ See Chapter xxii. 5. ^ See Chapter viii. 4. 

r 



72 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

made to produce very comical situations, 
those present on the stage having to change 
attitude, facial expression, manners, etc., on 
realizing that the exit was only momentary. 
The reappearance in such cases consists in 
sticking in the head at the door, etc. 

What has been said in the preceding chap- 
ter of the " Logical enter," " Conventional 
use of entrances," "The tormentors," "Pre- 
paring for enter," " Enter prepared for by the 
Iplot," is also true of the exit. 



CHAPTEE XIII. 

DIFFERENT r6lES IN PLATS. MALE r6lES. 

1. Types of Characters. — Although the 
conditions of dramatic production admit the 
possibility of an infinite variety of characters, 
the history of the stage in different countries 
shows that all may be referred to a few gen- 
eral types marked by broad characteristics of 
difference. These types occur over and over 
in the plays forming the repertories ^ of mod- 
ern theatrical companies. 

2. Classification of Actors. — Actors are 
classified according as they customarily as- 
sume the part of one type or another. The 
members of a company are selected with ref- 
erence to them. Most important of all, from 
the present point of view, plays are now usu- 
ally written and arranged so as to require a 
certain number and proportion of male and 
female actors of the various classes. 

3. Rdles. — The types referred to above 
are commonly termed roles, although this 
word, it should be noted, is also used to sig- 
nify the part of any particular character in a 

* The French word repertoire is also in common use. , 



74 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

particular play, as the role of Macbeth, Ju« 
liet, and so on. 

4. Male R61es. — The principal male roles 
are as follows : — 

(1.) The Star. 

(2.) The Leading Man. 

(3.) The Heavy. 

(4.) The First Old Man. 

(5.) The Second Old Man. 

(6.) The Comedian. 

(7.) The Light Comedian. 

(8.) The Low Comedian. 

(9.) The Eccentric Comedian. 
(10.) The Villain. 
(11.) The Juvenile. 
(12.) The Walking Gentleman. 
(13.) The Utility Man. 
(14.) The Super or " Supe " (supernumerary). 

6. The Star. — An actor (presumably of 
unusual attainments) who habitually plays 
the leading role is called a star. Plays in 
which the leading role is strongly marked 
go by the name of star plays, and the impor- 
tant roles are called star roles, or star parts. 
In a company where there is a star, the re- 
mainder of the company is known as the 
support. 

6. Star Plays. — When star plays are writ- 
ten to order, the part of the star is usu- 
ally emphasized at the expense of the rest of 
the characters. The star is given the lion's 
share of the strong situations, kept upon the 



I 



DIFFERENT r6lES IN PLAYS. 75 

stage during the greater portion of each act, 
and made the obvious centre of interest and 
attraction during the entire performance. 
The lines and incidents of the plot are so ar- 
ranged as to give him every opportunity for 
displaying his peculiar gifts. Everything 
which might detract from his importance is 
carefully excluded, and not unfrequently the 
other roles in the play are reduced to mere 
nonentities in order that the star may shine 
the more brilliantly by force of contrast. Ex- 
amples of star plays in which all the charac- 
ters are given strongly marked individuality 
are rare outside of the Shakespearean reper- 
tory. 

7. Double Stars. — A few plays are so 
arranged as to afford equal opportunities to 
two different actors. Such are the parts of 
Othello and lago in Othello, of Brutus and 
Cassius in Julius Ccesar, etc. The last-named 
play may almost be said to have three star 
roles, since the part of Antony falls but lit- 
tle below the other two in point of interest. 

8. The Leading Man. — In star playa the 
leading man plays the male role next in im- 
portance to that of the star. If the star is a 
lady, the leading man, in about ninety-nine 
cases out of a hundred, plays the part of her 
lover. In stock companies, the leading man 
fills the place of the star, whenever the play 
calls for one. 

9. The Heavy. — An actor who habituaHj" 



76 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

plays serious parts, devoid of comedy ele« 
ments, and calling for considerable manifes- 
tation of strong feeling, is called a heavy. 
The parts of the King and of the Ghost in 
Hamlet would be taken by heavies. Actors 
of this type who are qualified to assume 
important roles are spoken of as leading 
heavies, 

10. First Old Man. — The old men are 
distinguished from the heavies by their gray 
hair. The most important old man charac- 
ter, in a play which calls for more than one, 
is called the first old man. The part is usu- 
ally dignified, exhibiting the nobler and" more 
pathetic qualities of old age, such as tender- 
ness of feeling, magnanimity, etc. Less fre- 
quently the first old man portrays the vices 
of old age. 

11. Second Old Man. — If the play calls 
for two characters representing old men, the 
less prominent of the two is called the second 
old man. The second old man is not infre- 
quently a comic character. 

12. The Comedian. — An actor who is 
qualified to assume important comedy roles is 
called a comedian. In comedies the star is a 
comedian. 

13. The Light Comedian. — The comedi- 
an's business is to interpret comic characters. 
The light comedian makes it his aim to cause 
amusement partly by representation of char- 
acter, but mostly by tricks of manner, gesture, 
and voice, and by witty lines. 



DIFFERENT r6lES IN PLAYS. 77 

14. The Low Comedian. — The business 
of the low comedian is to excite laughter. To 
this end he resorts to any effective device, no 
matter how undignified, irrelevant or incon- 
sistent. There is usually but little pretense 
of character-drawing. In the lower class of 
theatres the part of the low comedian consists 
largely of horse-play — rude rough-and-tumble, 
tripping over chairs, falling into the water, 
etc. In the better theatres and in first-class 
plays, low-comedy roles are sometimes made 
to have considerable dramatic value by the 
selection of characters representative of the 
lower classes of life. 

15. The Eccentric Comedian. — A com- 
edian who gives himself up to the portrayal 
of odd and whimsical freaks of character is 
called an eccentriG comedian. 

16. The Villain. — The character in a 
play who represents the evil tendencies of 
human nature, and hence seeks to frustrate 
the purposes of the nobler characters, is 
called the villain. The villain may be either 
a heavy or a comedian. In the older plays, 
he was almost invariably the former, and 

, when uncommonly wicked and blood-thirsty 
was known as the heavy villain. At the 
present day it is not unusual to give the vil- 
lain a touch of comedy, generally of a satiri- 
cal kind. There has been some discussion of 
late over the question whether the villain 
may not be dispensed with altogether, but 



78 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

until human nature undergoes a radical change 
it is not likely that this interesting character 
will be eliminated either from real life or 
from the drama. 

17. The Juvenile. — An actor who habitu- 
ally undertakes youthful roles is called a ju- 
venile. The supposed age of the character 
represented may range anywhere from fifteen 
to thirt}^ years. 

18. The Walking Gentleman. — A role 
requiring simply presence on the stage and 
few if any lines to speak, and yet one which 
is an essential part of the play, is commonly 
taken by the walking gentleman. Where a 
part calls for a speech, it is called a " speak- 
ing part." 

19. The Utility Man. — An actor who can 
make himself generally useful on and off the 
rtage and who, though unqualified to assume 
important roles, is able to fill a minor va- 
cancy in case of emergency, is called a utility 
man. 

20. The Super. — Non-professional per- 
sons hired, for a single performance or a series 
of performances, to represent unimportant 
parts, such as waiters, soldiers, a mob, etc., 
are called supeimumeraries, supers or supes. 
The super who leads in the enter or exit of 
a company of supers is called captain of the 
supers. 

21. Character Actor. — An actor who cul- 
tivates the power of representing with equal 



DIFFERENT r5lES IN PLAYS. 79 

facility widely different characters is called a 
character actor. If tlie characters represented 
embrace those commonly called for in the 
modern repertories, he is called an all-around 
character actor. 

22. Doubling up. — As but few of the 
characters of a play are upon the stage at the 
same moment, except in important climaxes, 
it is sometimes possible so to arrange the ac- 
tion that one actor may play two parts. This 
is known as doubling up. In Hamlet, for in- 
stance, the same personage might represent 
both the King and the Ghost, since the two 
are never upon the stage together. In ar- 
ranging such parts, care should be taken to 
see that the actor who doubles up has suffi- 
cient time, after leaving the stage, to dress 
for the second character. 



CHAPTEE Xiy. 

DIFFERENT r6lES IN PLAYS. FEMALB 

r6les. 

1. Classification of Female R61es. — 

The principal female roles are : — 

(1.) The Star. 

(2.) The Leading Lady. 

(3.) The Emotional Actress. 

(4.) The Eirst Old Woman. 

(5.) The Second Old Woman. 

(6.) The Comedienne. 

(7.) The Soubrette. 

(8.) The Ingenue. 

(9.) The Adventuress. 
(10.) The Juvenile. 
(11.) The Walking Lady. 
(12.) The Utility Woman. 

2. Correspondence to Male Rdles. — 
All that has been said with regard to male 
roles applies equally well to the correspond- 
ing female roles. The female roles that have 
no correspondence whatever with male roles 
are: — 

(1.) The Soubrette. 

(2.) The Ingenue. 

The adventuress answers in the main to the 



DIFFERENT r5lES IN PLAYS. 81 

male villain, and the emotional actress to the 
male heavy. 

3. The Soubrette. — The term souhrette, 
originally applied to the intriguing chamber- 
maid of the old Erench comedy, is now nsed 
of any pert, frivolous, sprightly, and youthful 
female character. The favorite part for the 
soubrette is still that of the chambermaid, 
but star soubrette parts are not uncommon. 
At least one prominent actress — Lotta — has 
made fame and fortune in almost purely sou- 
brette roles. 

4. The Ingenue. — The characteristics of 
the ingenue are youth, simplicity, and artless 
innocence, generally mingled, in modern plays, 
with a generous proportion of sentiment. 
The ingenue may have, and generally does 
have, opportunities for strong demonstration, 
thus bordering on the province of the emo- 
tional actress. Again, the ingenue may ap- 
proach the soubrette in comedy lines ; but the 
comic should be rather a humorous elabora- 
tion of simplicity than an obviously ingenious 
witticism. 

5. Arrangement of Cast. — A stock com- 
pany cast^ comprises the following li-<=\t of 
actors : — 

(1.) The Leading Man. 
(2.) The First Old Man. 
(3.) The Comedian. 

1 A " cast" is an acting company to whom parts «;*» as- 
signed; hence the expression, casting a play. 



82 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

(4.) The Second Old Man. 
(5.) The Light Comedian. 
(6.) The Villain. 
(7.) The Juvenile (male). 
(8.) The Leading Lady. 
(9.) The First Old Woman. 
(10.) The Comedienne. 
(11.) The Soubrette. 
(12.) The Ingenue. 
(13.) The Juvenile (female). 
6. Cast of Traveling Companies. — The 
cast of traveling companies is made up of the 
characters needed for the performance of 
some one or two plays, unless the company 
on the road is a stock company. 

There are very few plays on the road that 
require more than ten characters. 



CHAPTER XY. 

"WHAT CONSTITUTES A PLAY. 

1. Definition. — In the broadest sense, a 
play is a complete and unified story of human 
life acted out on the stage in a series of mo- 
tived incidents so arranged as to excite the 
greatest amount of interest and pleasure in 
the spectator hy means of novelty, variety, 
contrast, suspense, surprise, climax, humor, 
and pathos. 

This is not intended for an exact scientific 
definition ; but as it covers the essential fea- 
tures of all plays produced at the present 
day, it is much better adapted for our purpose 
than any of the definitions which have come 
down to us from antiquity. A closer exami- 
nation of it will suggest the following points, 
which will be taken up and discussed in the 
order given : — 

(1.) The story. 

(2.) What constitutes a story. 

(3.) Characters. 

(4.) Characters suited to the story. 

(5.) Characters distinguished. 

(6.) Self-consistency of characters. 

(7.) Characters as foils. 

(8.) Completeness. 



84 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

(9.) Unity. 

(10.) The three unities. 

(11.) Unity of action. 

(12.) Unity of time. 

(13.) Unity of place. 

(14.) The story must be one that can be 
acted. 

(15.) The story must be suited to stage 
conventions. 

(16.) Motived incidents. 

(17.) Interest and pleasure.* 

(18.) Novelty. 

(19.) Variety and contrast. 

(20.) Suspense. 

(21.) Surprise. 

(22.) Climax. 

(23.) Humor and pathos. 

(24.) Where stories come from. 

(25.) Character of good stories. 

(26.) Adaptation. 

(27.) Adapting novels. 

(28.) Adapting foreign plays. 

2. The Story. — The first and most essen- 
tial feature of a play is the story. It may be 
very simple, or it may be very complex. It 
may be no more than : John wants to marry 
Susan, but cannot because Dick has told her 
that John is in love with Mary ; John dis- 
covers Dick's villainy and marries Susan.* 

^ See Chapter XVI., in whieli tMs and the following 
sub-titles will be discussed. 

^ The plot of one of the most popular plays of the 



WHAT CONSTITUTES A PLAY. 85 

Many successful plays have had no better 
formula than this. 

On the other hand, the story may be a con- 
fused tangle of ingenious complications as 
hard to separate as a Chinese puzzle. In any 
case there must be a story of some sort, -^ 
somebody must steal, or kill, or deceive; or 
love, or wed, — or there can be no play. The 
first thing, then, that the playwright must 
provide himself with, is a good story, or, bet- 
ter, a collection of good stories. 

3. What Constitutes a Story. — Every 
story that has any value for dramatic pur- 
poses may be reduced to the following for- 
mula : — 

A (standing for one or more characters) is 
trying to achieve some purpose. A is op- 
posed by B (representing one or more charac- 
ters), who tries to prevent A from carrying 
out his design. After a series of incidents, in 
which first one and then the other seems to 
have the upper hand, A finally succeeds in 
frustrating the designs of B, and either ac- 
complishes the end sought or is killed. 

4. Characters. — As the story is one of 
human life, it treats of the actions of men and 
women, and in consequence has characters. 

In the selection of his characters, the play- 
wright has an almost unlimited range ; but 
four requirements must be observed : — 

century, Hazel Kirke, may be stated in this way : She is 
married ; no, she is not ; yes, she is ! 



86 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

(1.) The characters must be suited to the 
story, — the story to the characters. 

(2.) The characters must be clearly distin- 
guished one from another. 

(3.) The characters must be self-consistent. 

(4.) The characters must be so selected and 
arranged that each one may serve as a foil to 
another. 

5. Characters Suited to the Story. — 
The incidents of the story must seem to grow 
out of the nature of the characters, and, on 
the other hand, the incidents must react on 
the characters to produce the result aimed at. 

In the Merchant of Venice, the trial scene 
is the direct outcome of Shylock's avarice and 
race prejudice. Put generous Othello in Shy- 
lock's place and the trial scene would be an 
absurdity. Equally absurd, on the other hand, 
would it have been to represent the keen-wit- 
ted Shylock as believing in lago's veracity. 

6. Characters Distinguished. — As, in 
real life, no two persons are exactly alike, so 
in a play each character must be marked off 
from every other, down to the least impor- 
tant. A skillful dramatist will manage to do 
this by a single touch. Thus the one line in 
which Shakespeare characterizes Eobin Ost- 
ler, "never joy'd since the price of oats rose," 
distinguishes him from all other characters. 

The distinguishing marks should be real 
elements of character, not mere tricks of 
dress, manner, or speech. A set form of 



WHAT CONSTITUTES A PLAY. 87 

words put always into the mouth, of the same 
character is called a gag. 

7. Self - Consistency of Characters. — 
Each personage must be made to say and do 
exactly what is appropriate to his character. 
A flagrant violation of this rule is found in 
Boucicault's London Assurance (as commonly 
performed), where that selfish old reprobate, 
Sir Harcourt, is given at the close a speech 
teeming with lofty sentiments and exalted 
morality. 

As Aristotle points out, a character, to be 
consistent with itself, must often be drawn 
as inconsistent. An inconsistent woman, for 
example, would be self-consistent only if por- 
trayed in all her characteristic inconsistency. 

8. Characters as Foils. — As will be 
shown later, contrast is one of the instru- 
ments of dramatic effect. An avaricious 
character, like Shy lock, stands out much 
more vividly when a generous nature, like 
Antonio's, stands over against it as a foil. 

Plays composed entirely of vicious or en- 
tirely of virtuous characters would be insuf- 
ferable. The characters should be so selected 
and arranged that in each scene the promi- 
nent characteristics of each may be made 
more prominent by contrast with the others 
of the same group. 

9. Completeness. — By a complete story 
is meant one that has a beginning, a middle, 
and an end. A story is complete when it is 



88 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

told so that the listener does not need to ask 
what happened before it began, nor care to 
ask what happened after it concluded. When 
we have heard a complete story through to 
the end, we know all that there is to tell. «; 
When a play like Othello, for example, has 
come to a close, the spectator feels that he 
has been put in possession of every fact^ 
about Othello and the other characters that 
he needs to know. No additional knowledge 
of Othello's career previous to the opening of 
the play would afford him any satisfaction, 
nor does he care to know what happens after 
the curtain falls. 

A remarkable but successful violation of 
this requirement may be found in Sardou's 
Daniel Rochat, in which the curtain falls just 
before the decisive step is taken which would 
relieve the spectator's suspense. Whether 
atheism or religion is master of the situation, 
is a problem left for the audience to solve. 
It need hardly be said that no playwright of 
ordinary powers would dare try this bold ex- 
pedient, or, having tried it, would stand one 
chance in a hundred of succeeding. 

With an incomplete story, the spectator is 
left unsatisfied : he wants to know what hap- 
pened before the play opened, in order to un- 
derstand what occurred during its progress ; 
he is not satisfied with the close, and wants 
to know what is going to happen next. 

10. Unity. — The story must be unified. 



WHAT CONSTITUTES A PLAY. 89 

This has been variously interpreted, but the 
most sensible view is, that all the incidents of 
the story must be made to cluster about a 
single central animating idea. One purpose 
must be seen to run throughout the whole 
series of incidents. If there are two series of 
incidents, they must be so woven together 
that, at the end of the story, it will be evident 
that one could not have taken place without 
the other. This constitutes the unity of ac- 
tion. 

11. The Three Unities. — The French 
critics of the seventeenth century distin- 
guished three separate kinds of unity : — 

(1.) The unity of action. 
(2.) The unity of time. 
(3.) The unity of place. 

12. Unity of Action. — The narrowest of 
the French critics understood the unity of 
action to mean that the play should have a 
single event and a single hero. 

13. Unity of Time. — Following an am- 
biguous statement in Aristotle's Foetics, the 
French critics restricted the time of the play 
to twenty-four hours. An extension to thirty 
hours was barely permitted. 

14. Unity of Place. — This unity required 
that there be no change of scene during the 
entire play. 

It is important to notice that the three 
unities, in their historical significance, were 
the invention of French criticism. From this 



90 THE ART OF PLAT WRITING. 

source, they were adopted for a time by Eng- 
lish playwrights. At the present time, the 
terms no longer have any meaning, save in 
the historical sense, when speaking of plays 
written under the influence of the old rules 
of criticism. No one pretends to regard them 
at the present day. It is still convenient, 
however, to speak of the unity of action, not 
in the old sense, but with the meaning defined 
in No. 10 of this chapter. 

15. The Story must be One that can be 
Acted. — Unless the story is one that can 
be acted out on the stage by men and women, 
it is worthless for dramatic purposes. It is 
not enough that it can be told or narrated ; it 
must be acted. It must find its natural ex- 
pression in those movements of the human 
body which tell of passion, emotion, and re- 
solve. It must be a story capable of being 
told in dagger-thrusts, kisses, frowns, sighs, 
laughter, caresses, eating, fighting, and dying. 
If it can be expressed in dumb show, then it 
satisfies at least one requirement of dramatic 
construction ; if it cannot, it may make a good 
novel or a good poem, but it will never make 
a successful drama. 

16. The Story must be Suited to Stage 
Conventions.^ — In the preceding chapters, 
the nature of the stage, its devices and its 
limitations, have been clearly set forth. It 
is upon this stage that the story must be 

^ See chapter xv. 3. 



WHAT CONSTITUTES A PLAY. 91 

acted, and to the conventions and limitations 
of this stage it must conform. A story in 
which a dozen people are represented as 
present throughout the entire narrative, may 
be very pleasant in the telling, but it will 
never do for the stage, where there must be 
enters and exits to give life and variety to the 
scene. A story of the war, in which a tree is 
cut in two by a cannon-ball and throws a spy 
who has been hiding in it headlong througli 
the window-sash of a house, may be the most 
delightful sort of reading, and yet be wholly 
impracticable for stage production. 

In these days of " tank " dramas, however, 
the possibilities of stage effect are by no 
means exhausted, and some boldness in this 
direction may not go unrewarded. 

17. Motived Incidents. — The story, when 
acted out upon the stage, takes the form of a 
series of incidents. Not every series of inci- 
dents, however, will constitute a plaj^ The 
incident must be motived. This means that 
the cause of every incident must be apparent 
in some incident that has preceded it and 
serves as a motive for it. Every event must 
be seen to grow naturally out of what has 
gone before, and to lead naturally to what 
comes after. An incident which is introduced 
arbitrarily, simply for effect, is called cZap. 
trap. 



CHAPTER XVI. 

WHAT CONSTITUTES A PLAY. MEANS OP 

CREATING INTEREST. 

1. Interest and Pleasure. — Tlie story 
must interest and please. This is the fundar 
mental law of the modern drama. It is not 
forbidden the dramatist to point a moral, or 
discuss a social problem ; but these are side 
issues, extra-dramatic effects, which he must 
undertake at his own risk. His first and his 
last business, as a playwright, is to tell such 
a story, and to tell it in such a way, that his 
audience will be forced to listen, and, listen- 
ing, cannot fail to be delighted.^ 

2. Novelty. — An important requirement 
of a dramatic story is, that it be fresh and 
original. Nothing wearies us like a stale anec- 
dote, a joke we heard the day before. If the 
playwright have any originality in him, by all 
means let him exercise it in the invention of 
new incidents. Still it must not be forgotten, 
that an old story, told in a new way, possesses 
all the charm of a new one. A certain interest 
also attaches to well-known events in history 
that compensates for their lack of novelty. 

^ This subject will be taken up and discussed later on. 
See Chapter xxiii. 2. 



WHAT CONSTITUTES A PLAT. 93 

3. Variety and Contrast. — Monotony is 
the bugbear of the dramatist. In order to 
escape it, lie must exercise all the inventive 
power of which, he is possessed to vary the 
character of the incidents as they follow one 
another. Pathos must be followed by humor, 
wit by eloquence, " talky " passages by quick- 
succeeding scenes of incident, soliloquies by 
the rapid give-and-take of dialogue. The en- 
tire act should be a rapidly shifting kaleido- 
scope, presenting new features at every turn. 

Variety not only destroys monotony, but it 
secures the powerful effect of contrast. A bit 
of humor is twice as effective if it follows an 
instant of pathos or even of commonplace. 
Brilliant dialogue seems doubly brilliant after 
a monologue. 

4. Suspense, The most important means 
of arousing interest is suspense. Keep a lis- 
tener in doubt as to what is coming, and he 
cannot help but listen. Suspense is the ner- 
vous system of the drama. In some form or 
another, it must exist throughout the entire 
progress of the story. At various points of 
the play, generally at the close of each act, it 
may be partially relieved, but it must always 
be done in such a way as to give rise to new 
suspense, or to leave one or two particulars 
still unsettled. Not until the last moment of 
the story should every item of doubt be 
cleared away. 

This does not mean that the audience is 



94 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

invariably not to be told what is coming. It 
is a curious fact of human nature, that we 
await an event with no less interest, and some- 
times with greater interest, when we know 
exactly what is coming, than when we are left 
in ignorance of its nature, — provided the 
story is told in such a way as to arouse our 
sympathy. This is one reason why the best 
plays may be heard over and over again with- 
out losing their powerful fascination over us. 

If the dramatist is sure of his powers, it is 
a very effective device to take the audience 
into his confidence, let them see just what is 
coming, and depend upon his skill in telling 
the story to keep them in a state of suspense. 
A successful play written upon this plan is 
sure of a much longer life than one which de- 
pends on mere surprise through unexpected 
incidents. 

6. Surprise. — Nevertheless, surprise is 
one of the most potent of stage effects. An 
audience may be startled or shocked into a 
state of interest when no other device would 
be of any avail. Surprises are most valuable 
in light comedies, which sometimes consist of 
little more than a succession of startling in- 
cidents. In more serious plays, too sudden 
surprises give the story an unpleasantly ab- 
rupt and " jerky " character. The surprise, 
in such cases, must be in a manner prepared 
for ; the audience must be made to have a 
dim foreboding of the impending disaster, 



WHAT CONSTITUTES A PLAY. 95 

while its exact nature is left a matter of sur* 
mise. 

6. Climax. — A regular increase of force 
and interest culminating in a strong situation 
is called climax. A dramatic story should be 
full of climaxes from beginning to end. Every 
act should have several lesser ones scattered 
through it, and should invariably end with 
one of greater importance. Toward the end 
of the play should occur the great climax, in 
the technical sense of the word, ^ i. e., the 
point at which the interest of the play reaches 
its highest stage. All the incidents leading 
up to a striking situation should be arranged 
in the form of a climax, growing gradually in 
force until the last is reached. The situation 
concluding a climax generally takes the form 
of a tableau, or stage picture. 

The technical climax must be carefully dis- 
tinguished from the catastrophe, which last — 
in tragedies especially — is often the strong- 
est situation of the play. 

7. Humor and Pathos. — Except in the 
lighter sort of comedy, the two elements of 
humor and pathos are always introduced in 
the modern drama. No one any longer thinks 
of writing pure tragedy for the stage, and, on 
the other hand, the most salable comedies 
are those which have a few touches in them 
of genuine pathos. 

8. Where Stories come from. — There 

^ See Chapter xix. 



96 THE ART OF PLAY WRITING. 

are no rules for collecting stories. They 
must come from observation of life, from con- 
versation, from reading, from old newspaper 
scraps, — anywhere, in a bit of life vividly 
told, may lurk the germ of a first-class dra- 
matic story. Many dramatists will confess 
to having had their best ideas suggested 
while reading old and forgotten novels. Many 
more, if they could be made to confess, would 
acknowledge their indebtedness to French 
brochures. A good story, wherever it comes 
from, is a priceless gem, and the playwright 
vrlio has a note-book full of them has the be- 
ginnings of a valuable stock-in-trade. 

9. Character of Good Stories. — The 
best stories for dramatic purposes require 
few presuppositions, and those of a character 
capable of being implied rather than demand- 
ing explicit statement. The story must, of 
course, be of such a character that it can be 
symmetrically developed under tlie dramatic 
form. The drama is a regular, orderly growth, 
and neither a story which consists of a series 
of episodes following one after the other like 
knots in a string, nor one which shoots sud- 
denly upwards to a resplendent climax, and 
as suddenly goes out in utter darkness, is of 
any value for purposes of dramatization. 

10. Adaptation. — There are two kinds of 
adaptation : — 

(1.) The dramatization of a novel. 
(2.) The translation and alteration of a 
play written in another language. 



WHAT CONSTITUTES A PLAY. 97 

11. Adapting Novels. — Not every novel 
can be successfully adapted, for the reason 
that its success may arise from features which 
do not admit of transference to the stage. 
The first point to notice in every case is the 
action. If the interesting portions of the 
novel depend for their interest, not on what 
the characters say, but on what they do, the 
novel probably has dramatic possibilities. 

12. Adapting Foreign Plays. — This pro- 
cess, so easy to the professional playwright, is, 
for the beginner, almost a hopeless task. Ex- 
cept in rare instances, nothing but a large ex- 
perience with the conventions of the American 
stage and the demands of the American public 
will enable the adapter to decide what por- 
tions of the foreign production will be effec- 
tive. Some plays need only to be translated, 
with a little cutting here and there. Others, 
and by far the greatest number, must be abso- 
lutely reconstructed, the characters altered 
and re-named, the minor incidents invented 
anew, the whole play denationalized and 
worked over on the American plan» 



CHAPTEK XYII. 

THEORETICAL CONSTRUCTION. 

Exposition. 

In the preceding chapters we have seen 
what a play is, and what the elements are 
that go to its construction. We have now to 
consider the process by which the material is 
to be put together in organized form. 

1. Making the Outline. — The story of 
the play having been decided upon, the first 
step is to make a rough outline of the drama 
that is to be. As has been said, every drar 
matic story has a beginning, a middle, and an 
end. These are known respectively as, — 

(1.) The exposition, or introduction. 
(2.) The height, or climax. 
(3.) The close, or catastrophe. 

2. Intervals. — I^ames are also given to 
the intervals between the above stages of the 
story, as follows : — 

(1.) The growth, rise, or tying of the knot. 

(2.) The fall, untying, or denouement. 

The growth, rise, or tying of the knot is all 
that comes between the exposition and the 
height. 

The fall, untying or denouement, is all that 
comes between the height and the close. 



THEORETICAL CONSTRUCTION. 99 

The significance of these terms may be made 
apparent to the eye by means of the following 
diagram : — 




a Beginning of the action. 

ah Exposition. 

he Growth. 

c Height. 

cd Fall. 

d Close, or catastrophe. 

The word denouement is frequently used 
as an equivalent for catastrophe. This is in- 
correct. It is literally the untying (French 
denouer, to untie), and includes all between 
the height and the close. 

3. Purpose of the Exposition. — Before 
the curtain rises, the audience knows no more 
of the story than can be learned from the 
playbill or programme. From this source 
they may be expected to ascertain only the 
names and chief peculiarities of the charac- 
ters, the time and place of the supposed ac- 
tion, the number of acts, and a vague sugges- 
tion of what the story is to be.^ Consequently 
'4t is necessary, at the beginning of the play, 
^ See Chapter xii. 2 and 3. 



100 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

to put the spectator in possession of all the 
facts necessary to a perfect comprehension of 
the story as it unrolls before him. All this 
explanatory part of the play, before the real 
movement begins, is called the exposition. 

4. Management of the Exposition. — 
The art of the exposition lies in introducing 
all the necessary facts without interruptiug 
the flow of the action. 

5. Methods of Exposition. — The prin- 
cipal methods of exposition are the follow- 
ing : — 

(1.) Prologue. 

(2.) Allowing the characters to narrate the 
facts. 

(3.) Arranging the first part of the action 
in such a way that it will tell all the facts 
while carrying on the story at the same time. 

6. The Prologue. — The prologue is of 
two kinds : — 

(1.) The spoken prologue. 
(2.) The acted prologue. 

7. The Spoken Prologue. — This favorite 
device of old English comedy — a few lines 
of verse recited by one of the actors before 
the rising of the curtain — has passed entirely 
out of vogue. In its latter days it lost its 
explanatory function, and served merely as a 
vehicle of social satire. A similar bit of verse 
or prose, recited after the play, is called the 
epilogue. Few modern audiences will wait 
for an epilogue. 



THEORETICAL CONSTRUCTION. 101 

8. The Acted Prologue. — The acted pro- 
logue is frequently used to introduce events 
occurring some years before the main action 
of the play takes place. It is generally a 
bunglesome device, and indicates that the 
dramatist does not have his story well in 
hand. Moreover, it does not escape the main 
difficulty, because the prologue must itself 
have an exposition. 

The original form of the acted prologue was 
the dumb show, in which the main features 
of the play were acted out in pantomime. An 
example of this may be found in the play 
performed before the court in Hamlet. The 
function of the dumb show is fulfilled in 
modern times by the printed playbill or pro- 
gramme. 

9. Exposition by Narration. — The most 
obvious method of presenting explanatory 
matter is to put it in the mouth of one of the 
characters. Thus the young dramatist, if it 
is necessary for the audience to know that 
Angelina is a foundling, will bring in two 
characters, seat them on opposite sides of the 
stage, and make one of them begin as fol- 
lows : " It is a strange, sad story. You must 
know that one cold winter night, seventeen 
years ago, a basket was left upon my door- 
step," and so on, until the story is told. 

The impropriety of this method will ap- 
pear if we remember that the essence of the 
drama is action, not narration. Scenes of this 



102 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

character, even when broken up into dialognG, 
are invariably prosy and wearisome, and 
should always be avoided. It is not practi- 
cable entirely to dispense with the narrative 
element, but it should be reduced to the 
smallest possible proportions. 

10. Spirited Narration. — A very effec- 
tive form of narrative exposition is to make 
one of the characters, discovered at rise, de- 
scribe the action supposed to be going on out- 
side the stage. This admits of considerable 
action, and forms a good preparation for the 
enters which follow. The following is the 
opening scene of Meilhac and Halevy's Frou- 
Frou, in Daly's brilliant adaptation : — 

Pauline is discovered, as the curtain rises to merry 
music, arranging a bouquet in a vase at L. The noise of 
a whip is heard, and she turns and looks off, B,., through 
the arch. 

Pauline. Who 's coming now ? {Goes to the arches 
and looks off.] "Why, if it is n't Mademoiselle Gilberte 
and that charming M. de Valreas ! What on earth can 
be the matter, that they are galloping in that way ? Oh, 
Monsieur might have spared his horse. Mademoiselle 
always comes in first. Now he 's assisting her to dis- 
mount. They are coming here ! {She runs to the vase of 
flowers again.] How long they are! {Turns.\ Made- 
moiselle must have gone to her room direct. {Returns to 
arch, C. ] That 's certain, for here comes M. de Valreas 
alone. How gracefully he hears defeat ! 

Enter Valreas, R. C, looking back. 

Another illustration may be found in the 
exposition of Eobertson's Home : — 

Lucy discovered seated on a sofa, L. C, holding a note. 



THEORETICAL CONSTRUCTION. 103 

Lucy. [Agitated.] It 's past twelve. What can it 
mean ? [Beading.] " Will come in by the kitchen g-ar- 
den when I have watched your papa out." [Looking 
from window.] There he is ! There 's my Bertie ! [Kiss- 
ing her hand.] He 's standing on the gate ! He sees me ! 
Now, he 's tumbled down and hurt himself ! Poor fel- 
low ! I know he 's bruised. That nasty gate, to go and 
let him fall ! Why, he 's coming in at the window, and 
not at the door ! What does this mean ? [Enter Bertie 
from B. window, limping.] Bertie ! 

11. Points of Effectiveness. — Notice, in 
both the foregoing instances, — 

(1.) That the scene described is a vivid and 
exciting one. 

(2.) That it is one in which the observer is 
intensely interested, especially in the second 
illustration. 

(3.) That it gives opportunity for action, 
emotion, expression of consternation by ges- 
tures, etc. 

(4.) That it leads at once to an enter, the 
scene outside being, so to speak, immediately 
transferred to the stage. 

Many striking instances of effective narra- 
tion might be pointed out in modern plays; 
but they are placed, not at the beginning, but 
in the body of the play, after the spectator's 
sympathy has been secured. In other cases, 
as, e. g., the long narrative of the last act of 
The Bells (an adaptation of Erckmann-Cha- 
trian's Le Juif Folonnais), rendered with so 
great effect by Mr. Irving, the accompanying 
action deprives the lines of their narrative 
character. 



104 THE ART OF PLAY WRITING. 

12. Exposition made Part of the Story, 

— This is tlie only truly artistic method of 
exposition. It is also by far the most diffi- 
cult, often taxing the dramatist's ingenuity to 
the utmost. In many cases where it appears 
impracticable, the fault will be found to lie, 
not with the method or the dramatist, but in 
the faulty and incoherent construction of the 
story itself. The test of a well-built story is 
not infrequently its ability to carry along 
with it its own exposition. 

13. Implication. — The means most often 
used to make the action form its own exposi- 
tion is hnplication ; i. e., the information is 
indirectly implied, not directly told. It may 
be implied, — 

(1.) By words. 
(2.) By action. 

14. Implication by Words. — An illus- 
tra^tion may be used to make this method 
clear : — 

The curtain rises and discovers a gentle- 
man and a servant. The things to be told 
the audience are, — 

(1.) The gentleman's name. 

(2.) The fact that he has come to call or. 
the master of the house. 

(3.) That the master of the house is his in= 
timate friend. 

(4.) That his friend is married. 

(5.) That he has married an heiress, and 
fallen into luxurious habits. 



THEORETICAL CONSTRUCTION. 105 

The direct metliod of exposition would sus- 
pend the action of the story while one char- 
acter or the other gives this information. 
The following dialogue, from Angler's Le 
Gendre de Monsieur Foirier, will show hoAV 
these facts may be implied in the words used 
to carry on the action ; the action being in this 
case the call itself, and the determined effort 
of the caller to see the master of the house : — 

Servant. I must tell you again, sir, that you cannot 
see the marquis. He is not yet out o£ hed. 

Hector. At nine o'clock in the morning ! [ylsic?e.] 
To be sure, the sun rises late during the honeym.oon. 
[^/oMc/,] When do they breakfast here ? 

Servant. At eleven. But what 's that f:o you ? 

Hector. Put on a plate for me. . . . 
Enter Gaston. 

Gaston. Wlmt! You? [They embrace.] 

Servant. [Aside.] A nice mess I 've made of it ! 

Hector. Dear Gaston ! 

Gaston. Dear Hector ! 

15. Analysis of Implication by "Words. 

— Notice in the above, — 

(1.) How the fact that Hector cannot see 
Gaston (a part of the action) is .made to im- 
ply that Gaston is luxurious in his habits (a 
part of the exposition). 

(2.) How Hector, in accounting for his fail- 
ure to see Gaston (action), implies that Gaston 
is married (exposition). 

(3.) How Hector's remark to the servant, 
" Put on a plate for me," implies that he has 
been a familiar friend of Gaston's. 



106 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

(4.) How the natural exclamations of the 
two men in greeting one another are made to 
tell the name of each. 

For further illustration, take the opening 
of the Long Strike, in which Boucicault intro- 
duces a meeting of the mill-owners, and makes 
the proceedings of this meeting serve to acr 
quaint the audience with the particulars of" 
the strike : — 

Parlor of Seven Star Inn. Armitage discovered at 
table ; Brooke, R., corner table ; Aspinwall, X., second 
chair; Readley at table; Crankshaw discovered at door, 
22. 3 E. ; noise outside ; voices outside at rise ; music. 

Armitage. Have you dispersed the crowd ? 

Crankshaw. No, sir ; the people axe very orderly, but 
they will rot move on. 

Readley. The street below is impassable ; the mob in- 
creases. 

Armitage. Very well. [Exit Crankshaw. Armitage 
rises.\ Gentlemen, we have to deal with a most perilous 
crisis. The workingmen of Manchester have now main- 
tained the longest strike on record. The clainas I advanced 
some weeks ago were, I confess, extravagant ; but I hear 
that moderate counsels have lately prevailed amongst 
them. Let us hope that the moment has arrived when, 
by mutual concession — 

Readley. I, for one, will concede nothing. The 
longer this strike is maintained, the more salutary will 
be the lesson. Their suffering, wantonly self-inflicted, 
will remain a tradition amongst similar combinations. 

Brooke. I agree with Mr. Readley. Concession, to 
these people, is encouragement 

Crankshaw. The deputation of the working committee 
is below, gentlemen. 

Enter Crankshaw R. 3 E. 



THEORETICAL CONSTRUCTION. 107 

Armitage. How is it composed ? D' ye know the 
men? 

Crankshaw. Yes, sir. There 's Noah Learoyd — 

Armitage. The crazy enthusiast ? I am sorry he is 
amongst them. Well ? 

Crankshaw. James Starkee, John O'Diek, and Old 
Sharrock. 

Headley. These are the ringleaders. 

16. Implication by Action. — An illus- 
tration will suffice for this also : — 

While several persons are on the stage, a 
gentleman enters, and finds himself face to 
face with a lady. Both start back in extreme 
surprise, stare at each other for an instant, 
then, as they recover their composure, bow 
coldly, and the lady exits, while the gentle- 
man glances after her out of one corner of 
his eye ; without a word being said, the audi- 
ence has been told that these two characters 
have, at some time in the past, sustained rela- 
tions to each other. 

17. Length of Exposition. — The neces- 
sary explanations shoiild be introduced as 
near the beginning of the play as possible, 
since, if brought in later, when the story is 
fairly under way, they interrupt the action 
and dissipate the interest. As a rule, the ex- 
planatory matter should be all in by the end 
of the first act, in a five-act play, or, in gen- 
eral, before one fifth of the play is completed. 

A new character, introduced in the middle 
or latter part of a play, sometimes demands 



108 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

further exposition. In such cases, a proper 
preparation for enter ^ will convey all needed 
explanation. In most cases, it will be found 
inexpedient to introduce new characters after 
the exposition proper, unless there is a chance 
to double up.2 

1 See Chapter sd. 12. 2 gee Chapter xiii. 22. 



CHAPTEE XYIII. 

THEORETICAL CONSTRUCTION (continued). 

Growth. 

1. Growth and Exposition. — The growth^ 
or tying of the knot, has been defined as in- 
cluding all that portion of the story which 
lies between the exposition and the point of 
greatest interest. Practically, however, there 
is no strictly drawn boundary line between 
exposition and growth. The interest of the 
best plays begins with the opening lines. 
The action develops uninterruptedly. What- 
ever exposition is needed is conveyed, as was 
explained in the last chapter, by implication, 
and so forms part of the growth itself. It is 
convenient, however, to speak of the exposi- 
tion as continuing until all the presupposi- 
tions have been set forth, and all the charac- 
ters introduced. 

2. Conflict and Plot. — As before ex- 
plained, every dramatic story is founded on 
the conception of a character striving to ac- 
complish some purpose in which he is 
thwarted by another character. This brings 
about a conflict, or clash of interests, which 
becomes more serious and more complicated 



110 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

as tlie play proceeds, and forms the intrigue 
on plot. 

3. Beginning of the Growth. — Tlie 
growth properly begins, then, at the point at 
which the disturbing element is introduced. 
We have perhaps a quiet scene, introducing 
two or three of the principal characters. 
Every one seems fairly happy, and everything 
seems going fairly well, when, suddenly, in 
comes some character whose mission is to de- 
stroy this peace and serenity. In a moment 
all is turmoil and consternation. The main 
action has begun. The virtuous characters 
struggle to maintain their happiness, the vil- 
lain strives to undermine them. Plot and 
counter-plot follow in quick succession, until 
the interest culminates in the climax. 

An example may be taken from Peacock^s 
Holiday, an adaptation, by H. C. Merivale, of 
Labiche's Le Voyage de Monsieur Perichon. 
Eobin Swayne and Stephen Tickell are two 
young men in love with Mary Peacock. Mary 
being on a tour in Wales with her father, 
Eobin thinks it a good chance to get ahead of 
his rival by taking the same tour, and so fall- 
ing in with the Peacock family apparently by 
accident. 

Scene : Exterior of an inn among the Welsh mountains. 

Robin. [Throwing himself on the bench.] This after- 
noon t Then I 'm just in the nick of time. I daresay 
old Peacock will ask me to join the party, and, once let 
me do so, I '11 see if I can't stick on for the rest of the 
tour. Fancy being in a Welsh car with Mary Peacock I 



THEORETICAL CONSTRUCTION. Ill 

Dear Mary, what a surprise it will be to her to see me 1 
In London there was always somebody in the way, espe- 
cially that fellow Tiekell, my oldest friend. But I 've 
got rid of him now ; he never would have thought of fol- 
lowing Mary down to Wales. He's off to Switzerland 
for his month's holiday, and thinks I 'm ditto to Scot- 
land. Hang it, how tired I am ! Where 's that beer ? 
Enter Stephen, R. C, with knapsack. 

Stephen. Waiter ! Pint of beer, and a bedroom. 

Bobin. [Jumping up ; aside.\ That voice ! Tiekell ! 
Confound it ! 

Stephen. [Seeing him ; aside.\ That face ! Swayne ! 
Damn it ! 

Bobin. [Aside.^ I fancied the fellow was safe in 
Switzerland. 

Stephen. [Aside. ] I thought the beggar was snug in 
Scotland. 

The clash, of interest has begun, and the 
growth is fairly started. 

4. Elements of the Conflict. — The con- 
flict of interests is not by any means confined 
invariably to the virtuous and the wicked, al- 
though, in all plays of a serious character, a 
conflict of this nature is certain to be found. 
In comedy, the clash usually comes about 
through misunderstandings of various sorts, 
though the same means, if properly employed, 
will bring to pass scenes of a highly pathetic 
and even tragic character. 

In the first act of Frou-Frou, Louise be- 
lieves, up to a certain point, that Sartorys is 
in love with her. Notice how this misunder- 
standing results in a conflict of interests in 
the highest degree pathetic : — 



112 THE ART OF PLAY WRITING. 

Louise. [To SaTtorys.\ How late you are to-day ! 

[Her manner must evince love for him and pleasure in 
his company. She motions to a chair; they sit.] 

Sartor ys. [Seriously.] I suppose I 'm late because I 
left liome earlier than usual. [Louise laughs.] I '11 ex- 
plain. I was in such a hurry to get here that I started 
from the chateau at a full g-allop ; but when I got within 
a hundred paces of the gate I stopped, turned my horse, 
and for a whole hour walked him about the neighbor- 
hood. I came back to the gate three times, and three 
times turned away again. The fourth time, however, I 
did like all cowards when they make up their minds to 
be brave. I plunged in head foremost, and here I am, a 
little later than usual, perhaps, but still here I am. 

Louise. [Who has followed him with interest and laugh- 
ingly, but noiv beginning to show her emotion.] What was 
the cause of this hesitation ? 

Sartorys. It is because I have decided to say some- 
thing to-day that I have wished to say for the last month. 
That is the reason why I trembled all the way here, and 
why I still — 

Louise. If what you have to say is so very serious — 

Sartorys. [Seriously.] It is. 

Louise. [Moved.] Perhaps you had better wait — 

Sartorys. Oh, no, I must positively go through with 
it to-day. Besides, before I speak I can gain courage by 
remembering how good you have always been to me. 
And then, your father authorized me to — 

Louise. Oh, if papa — 

Sartorys. He did ! And more than that, he said I 
must first speak to you. 

Jjouise. [Deep emotion.] To me ! 

Sartorys. [Taking her hand.] Have you not guessed ? 
I am in love. 

Louise. [Scarcely audible.] You love ! 

Sartorys. Yes ! I love madly, devotedly — your sis- 
ter ! Gilberte ! 

[Louise, as if petrified, at first says nothing ; simply 
raises her eyes to Sartorys, then — ] 



THEORETICAL CONSTRUCTION. 113 

Louise. Gilberte ! 

Sartorys. Did you not suspect it ? 

Louise. [Breathless.] No. 

5. Main and Subsidiary Actions. — The 

story, if told in the most straightforward way, 
would, in most cases, soon be over with. It 
is necessary to prolong it, to expand it at va- 
rious points, to give it variety and contrast. 
This is partly effected by the introduction of 
new characters at opportune points, bringing 
in fresh life and interest at the very moment 
when the action seems about to flag ; but 
mainly by the use of subsidiary actions, off- 
shoots of the main action, but yet so inti- 
mately connected with it that the attention 
will not be distracted from the movement of 
the plot as a whole. 

6. Example of Subsidiary Action. — In 
Act I., Scene 3, of the Long Strike, we are 
introduced to Noah Learoyd's dwelling. The 
main action of the play is the reply of the 
mill-owners to the demand of the workmen's 
delegates. The plain and straightforward 
telling of the story demands that the dele- 
gates be brought on the stage at once, and 
the result of their mission related. Instead 
of this, the writer skillfully introduces a sub- 
sidiary scene, as follows : — 

Noah^s dwelling. Gentleman from London, Jack O^Bobs, 
Tom O'' Bills, Maggie^ Susan, and two small children, and 
all the mill hands discovered at change. Clerk, seated at 
table, upon which is a bag of money, ledger, writing mate- 
rials, and lighted candles; crowd gathered round table; 
murmurs by crowd. 



114 THE ART OF PLAYWRrTING. 

Gentleman from London. [Taking L. of C, back to 
audience, reading list] Susan 'Olland, two Ainfants and 
von 'usband, ^operatives hon the strike ; one shilling- 
and threepence for the man, Aeig-htpenee for the woman, 
and tlireepence a 'ead for Aeaeh Ainfant ; total, two an' 
threepence ha'penny. 

Maggie. [As Susan is about to take money.] Stop! 
Her man is dead. Thou hast no right to draw for he, 
lass ! 

Gentleman. Dead ? 

Tom. Aye, he be as dead as a door-post. 

Gentleman. For shame, Mrs. 'Olland! 'ow could you 
^impose Aon the " London Central Strike Fund ? " 

Susan. Oh, sir, my babies are clemming'. 

Gentleman. Clemming ? What does she mean ? 

Jack. Starving-, sir ; that 's all. 

Gentleman. Retire, Mrs. 'Olland, babies Aain't on the 
Kst. [Beads.] Jack O'Bobbs ! 

Jack. That 's me. 

Gentleman. Full-growed Aoperatives, one and three- 
pence. 

[Clerk hands money to Jack.] 

Jack. [Turns to Susan.] Here, lass, take it. I can 
clem better than thee and thy childer. 

[Gives money to Susan. Crowd murmurs approvingly.] 

Tom. That 's right, Jack, thou art a good lad, and as 
long as I have a shilling- we 'U share it together. 

Omnes. Aye, aye ! 

Tom. But here comes the delegates. 

Omnes. Aye ! the delegates, the delegates ! 
Enter Noah, Sharrock, Staley, and O' Dick. 

Noah. [Making way through crowd ; stands by table.l 
We came from the masters. 

Omnes. Well, well ? 

Noah. [Hands paper to Clerk, who hands it to Gentle- 
man from London.] There, man, read it out, for I 've 
not the heart to do it. 

Gentleman. [Reads.] " The masters give you twenty- 
four hours to return to work. [Murmurs.] After that 



THEORETICAL CONSTRUCTION. 115 

time, every mill will be closed against you. [Murmurs.] 
No further communications will be received. Signed, for 
the Masters' League, Richard Readley." 

7. Analysis of Illustration. — Notice in 
the above passage the following points, which 
may be laid down as rules for the subsidiary 
action : — 

(1.) The scene is of itself an interesting 
one. 

(2.) It is closely connected with the main 
action, since it shows the desperate condition 
to which the operatives have been reduced. 

(3.) It leads up to the entrance of the dele- 
gates with the reply of the mill-owners, the 
hard conditions being made to seem doubly 
hard by the misery portrayed in the preceding 
lines. 

It is perhaps worthy of mention, that the 
enter of the delegates is not as well prepared 
for as it might be. Tom's exclamation, " But 
here comes the delegates," is too evidently 
merely a device for getting them on. A word 
or two of anxiety earlier in the scene, on the 
part of some of those present, would have 
obviated this defect. 

8. Episodes. — The playwright must be 
especially cautioned against the introduction 
of episodes, subsidiary actions or scenes 
which do not carry on the main action. How- 
ever interesting an episode may be of itself, 
however humorous or pathetic, it should be 
ruthlessly cast aside unless it in some way 



116 THE ART OF PLAY WRITING. 

helps on the jorincipal current of the story. 
To put the same fact in another way, what* 
ever can be taken out of the play without in- 
terrupting the flow or decreasing the interest 
of the story should be left out altogether. 

9. Series of Climaxes. — If the story 
grows continually in interest, the introduc- 
tion of the various characters, with their con- 
flicting aims, will lead to a series of situa- 
tions and climaxes, which themselves will be 
arranged in a climax. Thus, if we employ 
the diagram used in the last chapter, the 
growth of Bulwer's Lady of Lyons may be 
represented as follows : — 




h Beauseant rejected. Act I., Sc. 1. 

c The plan of revenge. Act. L, Sc. 2. 

d Claude rejected. Act I., Sc. 3. 

e The offer of revenge. Act I., Sc. 3. 

/ Claude, as the Prince, suffers remorse^ 



THEORETICAL CONSTRUCTION. 117 

but consents to marry Pauline. Act II., Sc. 1. 

g The figlit with. Damas. Act II., Sc. 1. 

h The Prince warned to fly. Act II., Sc. 1. 

% Pauline consents to an immediate mar- 
riage. Act II., Sc. 1. 

j Claude refuses Beauseant's money. Act 
III., Sc. 1. 

k Pauline discovers the deception. Act 
III., Sc. 2 {grand climax). 

The exposition, in this play, extends from 
€fc to d. 



CHAPTEE XIX. 

THEORETICAL CONSTRUCTION (cOTltinued), 

The Height y or Grand Climax. 

1. Tying of the Knot. — From tlie pre- 
ceding chapter it will readily appear that the 
business of the growth is to involve the hero 
and heroine in apparently inextricable diffi- 
culties. Each new turn of the plot winds the 
coils firmer and tighter about the hero or 
heroine, until a stage is reached at which 
there seems no possible chance of escape. 
Things have come to the worst imaginable 
pass. The ingenuity of the playwright has 
reached a point where, within the limits of 
the story, it can no further go. All the sus- 
pense which has been growing from the be- 
ginning of the play is concentrated in one 
grand situation. The knot is tied, and all 
that is left to do is to untie it as skillfully 
as may be. This point of highest interest is 
the Climax, or Height. 

2. Rules of the Height. — The highest 
point of interest should meet the following 
requirements : — 

(1.) It should be a direct consequence of 
the preceding action. 



THEORETICAL CONSTRUCTION. 119 

(2.) It should sum up all the preceding 
climaxes. (This is in case there is but a 
single height. See, this chapter, ISTo. 6.) 

(3.) It should occur in the latter half of 
the play. 

3. Height as Consequence of the 
Growth. — This principle might perhaps be 
stated more practically in the form of a cau- 
tion : Do not use a striking situation as 
climax just because it has elements of 
strength. A " strong " situation is a fine 
thing ; and, once found or imagined, it should 
be placed where it can be laid hold of at a 
moment's notice. But, as part of an actual 
play, it will be worse than wasted unless it is 
the natural outcome of all the action that has 
preceded. The grand climax must not be 
tacked on at the end of a row of incidents ; it 
must appear to grow out of them as naturally 
and inevitably as a flower from its bud. 

4. Height as Summing up of the 
Growth. — In an artistically written play, 
the height will appear to gather together all 
the striking scenes that have preceded it, and 
to pass them in rei^iew. The reason for this 
will appear from the foregoing paragraph. 
The height is the direct outcome of the 
growth. When it occurs, the spectator rapidly 
traverses in mind all the stages of interest 
from the beginning of the play, and seems to 
find a reason for them all in the situation be* 
fore him. 



120 TFIE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

5, Place of the Height. — Throughout the 
growth, the problem of the dramatist is to 
build up the interest progressively by adding 
one complication after another. After the 
climax is passed, the problem is to remove the 
complications in such a way that the interest 
shall not flag. It will be readily seen that 
the first process is much more susceptible of 
expansion than the latter. For this reason, 
the fall should be much shorter than the 
growth ; and, in consequence, the climax 
should be placed somewhere between the 
middle and the end of the play. In five-act 
plays, it commonly falls near the close of the 
third act, — sometimes in the fourth act. In 
The Lady of Lyons the climax comes in Act 
III., Sc. 2, with the disillusionment of Paul- 
ine. In Othello the climax is reached in Act 
lY., Sc. 1, wdiere Othello becomes convinced 
of his wife's infidelity. The climax may be 
said to reach its culmination in the blow which 
Othello deals Desdemona : — 

Oih. Fire and brimstone ! 

Bes. My lord ? 

0th. Are you wise ? 

T>es. What ! Is he angry ? 

Lod. Maybe the letter moved him ; 

For, as I think, they do command him home, 
Deputing Cassio in his government. 

Des. By my troth, I am glad on 't. 

0th. Indeed ! 

Des, My lord ? 

Oth. I am glad to see you mad. 

Des. How, sweet Othello ? 

Oih, Devil! {Striking her \ 



THEORETICAL CONSTRUCTION. 121 

6. Multiple Climaxes. — The rage for 
strong situations, so prevalent at the present 
day, has led to the construction of plays in 
which there are two or more grand climaxes 
of apparently equal importance. Indeed, in 
not a few of our most successful plays, the 
growth and fall take up but a brief portion at 
the beginning and end ; all the remainder con- 
sisting of a series of grand climaxes following 
one another as rapidly as the writer can man- 
age to bring them about. Plays thus con- 
structed must be regarded as inartistic, though, 
here, as everyAvhere, success must inspire a 
certain degree of respect. It is this class of 
plays that appeals most strongly to the un- 
cultured. The " gallery " does not know very 
much about art, but it can tell a strong situ- 
ation as unerringly as can the parquet. A 
good play, from the standpoint of the gallery, 
is one made up of a succession of loiock-down 
effects ; and so long as the gallery exists as 
a paying institution, so long will such plays 
be in demand. 

7. Management of Multiple Climaxes. — 
Almost the only rule that can be given for 
the management of several climaxes is, to 
make the last one invariably the strongest. 

Practically, the terms " situation " and " cli- 
max " are used as synonymous. Many pro- 
fessional play-readers speak of a play as hav- 
ing numerous strong situations, when, in fact, 
the so-called situations are a series of cli- 
maxes. 



122 



THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 



Wlien there are but two climaxes, the out' 
line should be like the first rather than the 
second of the following diagrams : — 

r\ /A. 



The following form should be carefully- 
avoided, as it constitutes an anii-climax : ^ -^ 




Where there are a number of climaxes, any 
of the following outlines may be followed, the 
third being preferable, — 




The meaning of the letters in the above 
diagrams is as follows : — 
a Beginning of play. 
h G X y z Climaxes. 
d Close. 

1 A climax less important than the preceding one, and 
consequently less striking. 



THEORETICAL CONSTRUCTION. 123 

8. Illustration. — A good example of well- 
managed double climax may be found in Bul- 
wer's Richelieu. In Act III., Sc. 2, tbe con- 
spiracy reaches its height. It is the darkest 
hour for Eichelieu. Frangois has lost the 
packet. The Cardinal has fled to Euelle, 
whither is coming Huguet, with his band of 
traitors. To crown all, De Mauprat enters 
the Cardinal's chamber to slay him. The cli- 
max is reached when the former, lifting his 
visor, exclaims, " Expect no mercy ! Be- 
hold De Mauprat ! " But the resources of the 
dramatist are not yet exhausted. Kichelieu 
escapes the conspirators only to discover that 
the king has turned against him, and that his 
power is apparently gone forever. Thus a 
second climax of greater force is brought 
about in Act IV., Sc. 2, where Baradas comes 
to take Julie to the king. 



CHAPTER XX. 

THEORETICAL CONSTRUCTION OF A PLAY {cOTif 

tinued). 
The Fall. 

1. Object of the Fall. — The playwright 
may now be conceived to have brought the 
growth of interest and suspense to its highest 
point. But he may not stop here. The story, 
it will be remembered, must be complete. It 
must be carried to a point where there is 
nothing more to tell. He cannot, therefore, 
pause with his characters hanging, as it were, 
in mid-air. He must conduct the story to 
some fitting conclusion, after which the audi- 
ence will depart in peace, — calm, passion- 
spent, and satisfied. 

2. Management of the Pall. — The art of 
the fall, or untying of the knot, consists in 
removing the various suspense-creating com- 
plications in such a way as not to destroy the 
interest. The methods of accomplishing this 
differ somewhat as the ending is to be a 
happy or an unhappy one. 

3. The Fall in Comedy. — In comedies 
(including, for the moment, under the term 



THEORETICAL CONSTRUCTION. 125 

all plays ending happily), the problem of the 
growth is to get the hero and heroine into 
difficulties. Hence the method of the fall 
will be to dissipate the clouds, either by show- 
ing that the difficulties are mere figments of 
the imagination, or by so ordering the inci- 
dents that the obstacles will be destroyed. 
It must be kept in mind, however, that, if the 
suspense is entirely removed at any one point, 
the audience will at once lose interest in the 
action. It is the business of the dramatist to 
see that not all the causes of suspense are re- 
moved at once ; and that, as often as one diffir 
culty is taken away, the presence of others is 
at once suggested. There are four ways of 
doing this : — 

(1.) By interposing some new and unex- 
pected obstacle. 

(2.) By emphasizing some obstacle already 
known to exist. 

(3.) By bringing to light an obstacle which 
is at once seen to have existed all the time. 

(4.) By causing a new obstacle to result 
from the very removal of others. 

4. Interposition of New Obstacles. — 
This method is justifiable only when the new 
difficulty is in some way the result of pre- 
vious action. Two men, for example, have 
become involved in a series of difficulties, 
ending in their imprisonment. They manage 
to overpower the jailor, and make their way 
through the corridors to a door which they 



126 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

believe will let them into the street. The 
suspense seems about to be removed. They 
open the door, and find themselves in the 
guard-room of the prison. A new element of 
suspense now takes the place of the old one. 
Obviously, however, unless there is some good 
reason for the fugitives coming to this par- 
ticular door, the device is mere clap-trap. If, 
on the other hand, the audience recognizes, as 
soon as the door is opened, that flight must 
inevitably have led to this one door, the inci- 
dent becomes both justifiable and artistically 
effective. 

In light comedy, when surprise is the only 
end in view, new and ingenious obstacles are 
introduced in profusion, with little regard to 
artistic construction. Even these, however, 
may be in a measure prepared for. In the 
following scene from Gilbert's Engaged, the 
entrance of Cheviot Hill is apparently the 
end of the suspense ; but a new obstacle is in- 
terposed by Cheviot's announcement that the 
McQuibbigaskie has gone abroad. The fact, 
however, that some reply was expected, serves 
as preparation for the unexpected announce- 
ment : — 

Minnie. \_Nervously^ Oh, Belinda, the terrihle mo- 
ment is at hand. \_Sits on sofa., L.'\ 

Miss Treherne. Minnie, if dear Cheviot should prove 
to be my husband, swear to me that that will not prevent 
your coming- to stop with us — with dear Cheviot and me 
— whenever you can. 

Minnie. Indeed I will. And if it should turn out 



THEORETICAL CONSTRUCTION. 127 

that dear Cheviot is at liberty to marry me, promise me 
that that will not prevent your looking- on our house — on 
dear Cheviot's and mine — as your house. 

Miss Treherne. I swear it. We will be like dear, dear 
sisters. 

[Enter Cheviot, as from journey, D. F. B., with bag and 
rug.] 

Miss Treherne. Cheviot, tell me at once ; are you my 
own husband ? 

Minnie. Cheviot, speak ; is poor, little, simple Minnie 
to be your bride ? 

Cheviot. [Sits on chair, R.] Minnie, the hope of my 
heart, my pet fruit tree ! Belinda, my Past, my Present, 
and my To Come ! I have sorry news, sorry news ! 

Miss Treherne. [Aside.l Sorry news ! Then I am not 
his wife. 

Minnie. [Aside.] Sorry news ! Then she is his wife. 

Cheviot. My dear girls, my dear girls, my journey has 
been fruitless ; I have no information. 

Miss T. and Min. No information ! 

Cheviot. None. The McQuibbigaskie has gone abroad ! 

5. Emphasizing Known Obstacles. — 

This is not so effective as the last method, 
for the reason that the element of surprise, 
unless the audience is inclined to be forgetful, 
may be wholly lacking. The usual means of 
introducing such obstacles is by some such 
phraseology as " one difficulty is surmounted, 
now for the rest ! '' Thus, in the third act 
of Eobertson's Home^ after Col. White has 
ordered Mrs. Pinchbeck out of the house, an- 
other obstacle is introduced in the person of 
her brother, Mountraffe : — 

Mrs. Pinchbeck. Do you wish to insult me ? 

Col. White. No \ Only to induce you to pack upi> 



128 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

Mrs. P. Can't I insult you ? 

Col. No. 

Mrs. P. ^Vhy not ? 

Col. Because, you're a woman; and I acknowledge 
the superiority of your sex over j^ourself . 

Enter Mountraffe, D. U. E. L. 

Mountraffe. Pamela! [Down C] 

Col. [Seeing him, aside-] Oh, this is a very different 
affair. I need n't keep my temper now. [Ajler a pause.] 
I wont. 

6. Necessary Obstacles. — Obstacles of 
this character are those which naturally result 
from the characteristics of the dramatis per- 
sonce. As the progress of the drama moves 
towards reconciliation of interests, new com- 
binations and clashes inevitably result. An 
illustration may be taken from Act V., Sc. 1, 
of Boucicault's London Assurance. Lady 
Spanker lays a scheme to punish Sir Har- 
court by getting him involved in a duel The 
plan seems likely to succeed, when an ele- 
ment of Sir Harcourt's character — courage — • 
comes in, to give a new turn to the course of 
events : — 

Be-enter Lady Gay, L. 

Lady Gay. Oh ! Max, Max ! 

Max. Why, what 's amiss with you ? 

Lady Gay. I 'm a wicked woman ! 

Max. What have you done ? 

Lady Gay. Everything ! Oh, I thought Sir Harcourt 
was a coward ; but now, I find a man may be a coxcomb 
without being a poltroon. Just to show my husband how 
inconvenient it is to hold the ribands sometimes, I made 
him send a challenge to the old fellow ; and he, to my 
surprise, accepted it, and is going to blow my Dolly's 
brains out in the billiard-rooBU 



THEORETICAL CONSTRUCTION. 129 

Max. The devil ! 

Lady Gay. Just when I imagined I had got. my whip- 
hand of him again, out comes my linch-pin, and over I 
go. Oh ! 

Max. I will soon put a stop to that. A duel under 
my roof ! Murder in Oak Hall ! I '11 shoot them both ! 
Exit, L. 

Grace. Are you really in earnest ? 

Lady Gay. Do you think it looks like a joke ? Oh, 
Dolly, if you allow yourself to be shot, I will never for- 
give you ; never ! Oh, he is a great fool, Grace ; but, I 
can't tell why, I would sooner lose my bridle-hand than 
he should be hurt on my account. 

7. Obstacles Resulting from the Re- 
moval of Others. — This method, which re- 
quires some ingenuity, is always highly effec- 
tive, especially in light comedy. By its 
proper use, the fall may be prolonged indefi- 
nitely without decreasing the interest. In 
the following scene from Bronson Howard's 
Saratoga, notice how Sackett's conversation 
with Mrs. Alston, just when it seems to have 
accomplished its end in removing all obsta- 
cles to an understanding between the latter 
and Benedict, suddenly leads to the interpo- 
sition of a more serious obstacle ; — 

Mrs. Alston. Mr. Saekett, where 's Mr. Benedict ? 

SacJcett. [Assuming a very serious air.] Alas, my dear 
Olivia, you are too late ! 

Mrs. Alston. Too late ! Oh, heaven ! do not say that i 

Saekett. Jack was my friend, my schoolmate, the com 
panion of my early years. 

Mrs. Alston. Surely you have not — 

Saekett. I urged him to reflect — to consider our v^ 
jations — 



130 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

Mrs. Alston. You have not fought already ? 

Sackett. Tears came into his eyes, he grasped me by 
the hand — 

Afrs. Alston. Oh, this suspense is terrible ! 

Sackett. "Robert," said he, "we are old friends; 
but you have insulted the woman whom I love better 
than ten thousand lives " — I think it was ten thousand 
lives, I forget the exact number — "the woman I love 
better than ten thousand lives ; she insists upon the satis- 
faction of a gentleman " — I mean, the satisfaction of a 
woman — " and I shall protect her honor at the expense 
of friendship, life, everything that is dear to m.e." As 
we raised our pistols — 

Mrs. Alston. Oh, heaven ! as you raised your pistols — 

Sackett. As we raised our pistols, I said to him, 
"Benedict, my dear boy, it isn't too late yet; " but it 
was too late ; his bullet whizzed past my ear, and landed 
in the wall beyond. 

Mrs. Alston. And your bullet ? 

Sackett. My bullet missed my friend's heart, by less 
than eighteen inches. He fell ; a surgeon was summoned ; 
and he now lies in the next room, in a delirious condi- 
tion ; a victim of his love for you, m.adam, and his devo- 
tion to the dictates of manly honor. 

Mrs. Alston. He lies in the next room ? 

Sackett. He lies in the next room, [aside} and J lie in 
this room. 

Mrs. Alston. I will fly to him at once. I will — 

[Goes to door, B. C. Sackett hurries, and places himself 
between her and door.} 

Sackett. Not for the world, madam, not for the world ; 
the surgeon is with him this very moment. 

Mrs. Alston. Oh, he would rather have me by his side 
than a thousand surgeons. 

Sackett. I dare say he would, Mrs. Alston; but the 
surgeon has given strict orders that she — I would say that 
he — must be entirely alone with Mr. Benedict. 

Mrs. Alston. Mr. Sackett, stand back ; Mr. Benedict 
is suffering on my account. I insist on flying to his side. 



THEORETICAL CONSTRUCTION. 131 

[She pushes him aside; flies to door ; opens it, and enters^ 
H. C. Sackett staggers to chair B. of table, and sinks into 
it.] 

Sackett. Oh, Lord ! oh, Lord ! now for an explosion! 

[Re-enter Mrs. Alston, followed by Benedict, trying to 
explain ; they walk B. and L. and up and down.} 

Benedict. My dear Olivia ! — 

Mrs. Alston. Silence, sir ; not a word from you ! Go 
back to your surg-eon, sir! 

Benedict. [R.] "Surgeon!" 

Mrs. Alston. [L., to Sackett, who turns his back, strid-m 
ing his chair, as she turns to him.] So this is your " de- 
lirium,' ' sir, — a " victim of his love for me, and his devo- 
tion to the dictates of manly honor " — oh, I could tear 
his eyes out, and those of his " surgeon " too. 

8. The Fall in Tragedy. — In comedy, 
the movement from the climax onward is to- 
ward a happy ending. The audience feels 
that a reconciliation is approaching, and hails 
with delight the removal of the various obsta- 
cles which stand in the way. In tragedy, the 
situation is almost the reverse. The audience 
is, from the beginning of the fall, made to an- 
ticipate some dreadful disaster. The conflict 
is seen to be irreconcilable, death inevitable. 
The problem of the playwright in this case is, 
as before, to produce suspense, but under dif- 
ferent conditions. He knows, if he is a stu- 
dent of human nature, that there is a horrible 
fascination in an impending calamity, and 
that, if vividly suggested and rapidly brought 
on, it will suf&ce to hold the attention of his 
audience. Furthermore, he knows, or should 
know, that this sense of fascination may be 



132 THE ART OF PL AT WRITING. 

both relieved and heightened by the effect of 
contrast. A sudden gleam of hope makes the 
despair that follows a hundred times mor^ 
pathetic. 

9. Happy Ending Suggested. — The 
method, therefore, of the tragic dramatist for 
prolonging the suspense after the climax has 
been passed, is to suggest possible means of 
escape from the impending fate. Eomeo 
may rescue Juliet from the tomb and bear her 
away to Mantua, Hamlet may escape the 
poisoned foil and cup, Macbeth has yet one 
chance of life — he cannot be slain by one of 
woman born. It is unnecessary to go into de- 
tails upon this point. Here, as everywhere, 
it is best that the suggestions of possible 
escape should not be arbitrary, but such as 
grow naturally out of the circumstances of 
the action. It is worth noting that, as the 
action draws near the catastrophe, a very 
slight hint of reprieve will send a wave of 
hope through an attentive audience. The 
spectator will clutch at it as the drowning 
man is said to clutch at straws. Those who 
have heard Barrett in the following scene 
from Boker's Francesca da Itimini, will per- 
haps recall the flashes of hope occasioned by 
Lanciotto's questions. Although it was per- 
fectly obvious that no happy ending was pos- 
sible for the two lovers, yet the sj^mpathetic 
heart of the spectator persisted in hoping 
against hope that Paolo might make his peace 
with Lanciotto : — 



THEORETICAL CONSTRUCTION. 133 

Lan. Silence, both of you ! 

ts guilt so talkative in its defence ? 
Then, let me make you judge and advocate 
In your own cause. You are not guilty ? 

Paolo. Yes. 

Lan. Deny it — but a word — say, No. Lie, lie ! 
And I '11 believe. 

Paolo. I dare not. 

Lan. Lady, you ? 

Fran. If I might speak for him — 

Lan. It cannot be ; 

Speak for yourself. Do you deny your guilt ? 

Fran. No ; I assert it ; but — 

Lan. In heaven's name, hold ! 

Will neither of you answer No to me ? 
A nod, a hint, a sign, for your escape. 
Bethink you, life is centred in this thing. 
Speak ! I will credit either. No reply ? 
What does your crime deserve ? 

Paolo. Death. 

Fran. Death to both. 

Lan. Well said ! You speak the law of Italy ; 
And by the dagger you designed for me, 
In Pepe's hand, — your bravo ? 

Paolo. It is false ! 

If you received my dagger from his hand 
He stole it. 

Lan. There, sweet heaven, I knew ; 
And now you will deny the rest ? You see, my friends, 
How easy of belief I have become ! — 
How easy 'twere to cheat me ! 

Paolo. No ; enough I 

I will not load my groaning spirit naore ; 
A lie would crush it. 

Lan. Brother, once you gave 

Life to this wretched piece of workmanship. 
When my own hand resolved its overthrow. 
Revoke the gift. [Offers to stab himself.] 

Paolo. [Preventing him.] Hold, homicide ! 



134 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

Lan. But, think, 

You and Francesca may live happily, 
After my death, as only lovers can. 

10. Mediated Tragedy.^ — In plays where 
the tragic close is avoided, and the action 
which seemed tending towards a calamity is 
brought around to a happy ending, the two 
methods just described are to be found in 
combination. While stress is being laid upon 
the supremacy of fate, suggestions of possible 
escape are introduced ; when the prospect of 
a happy termination becomes apparent, sus- 
pense is kept up by the introduction of fresh 
obstacles. 

^ See Chapter viiL 



CHAPTER XXI. 

THEORETICAL CONSTRUCTION OF A PLAT (COU' 

tinned). 
The Close, or Catastrophe. 

1. Kinds of Close. — The close of the 
play, with playwrights who have no con- 
scientious scruples about their art, is a very 
simple matter. Kill the villain and pair the 
virtuous, is rule enough for them ; and as soon 
as the play has reached its time limit, this is 
done, and the performance is over. Careful 
construction, it is hardly necessary to say, de- 
mands a closer relation of fitness between the 
end of the play and the play itself. Hence, 
we find three different kinds of close, corre- 
sponding to the three main classes of plays : — • 

(1.) The catastrophe of tragedy. 

(2.) The close of comedy. 

(3.) The close of mediated drama. 

2. The Tragic Catastrophe. — The close 
of tragedy is always a catastrophe ; that is, 
the death of one or more of the characters. 

The most important rule regarding it is, 
that it must be the direct outcome of the 
whole action of the play, and, therefore, be 
seen to be necessary and inevitable. An arbi- 



136 THE ART OF PLAYWRITIXG. 

trary, needless death is in tlie highest degree 
inartistic. 

3. Death the Result of Transgression. — 
In order to satisfy our sense of justice and 
equity, a tragic death must be the result of 
some violation of law, social or divine. The 
transgression may be direct and conscious, as 
in the case of Macbeth. The catastrophe is 
then said to be a case of " poetic justice." Or, 
the character who commits the fault may do 
so unwittingly, and even believe that he is 
doing a bounden duty, as in the case of Lear 
when he casts off Cordelia. In many cases, 
the tragic result is due to a defect of char- 
acter, as, e. g., the irresolution of Hamlet. 
The important point in every case is, that the 
death be made to result from some action or 
trait intimately connected with the character 
which renders a happy ending out of the 
question. 

4. Management of the Tragic Catas- 
trophe. As tragedies pure and simple are in 
no great demand at the present day, detailed 
instructions on this point would perhaps be 
a waste of space ; but one or two suggestions 
may be given. The playwright should re- 
member that it is not the mere termination 
of animal life which is effective on the stage, 
but the associations that go with it. The 
aim, therefore, should be not merely to kill 
the character, but to make of his death a pa- 
thetic situation. This may be done by sug- 



THEORETICAL CONSTRUCTION. 137 

gesting at tlie moment of death, the happiness 
that might have been, or emphasizing some 
noble trait of character that makes regret for 
the death more poignant. Compare, for ex- 
ample, the speeches of Paolo, in the quotation 
made in the preceding chapter from Francescou 
da Rimini, the last utterances of Othello, and 
tlie dying words of Marguerite, in Dumas's La 
Dame aux Camelias (Camille). 

Few catastrophes are better managed than 
tlie following from FrovrFrou (adapted by 
Augustin Daly), with its characteristic touch 
of pathos in the last exclamation of Gil- 
berte : — 

Sartorys. [Taking her hand, and kneeling.] Oh, Gil- 
berte, it is not you who need forgiveness ; it is I. 

Gilberte. Forg-ive you for — for what ? For having 
loved me too well ? Oh, that has been my misfortune ; 
all have loved me too well. 

Louise. [Sobbing.] Gilberte ! 

Gilberte. And that is why I die — so happy. [Falling 
back.] Oh! 

All. [Believing her dead] Gilberte ! 

Gilberte. [Supported by Sartorys, who places his arm 
tenderly about her as she raises her head.] Louise, where 
are you? Louise! [Louise places a hand in Gilberte' s, 
without lifting her head.] Let me tell you — when I am 
dead — deck me out as beautifully as in the by-gone 
happy days — not in this black robe. Among my ball 
dresses, you will find a white one, you know ; the skirt is 
covered with little roses ; that is the one I want ; don't 
forget, and yoa will see how handsome I shall be. 

Sartor ys. Oh, Gilberte ! darling ! 

Gilberte. [Sadly smiling; her eyes upturned to his.] 
You see — still the same — Frou-Frou — [Growing in- 
sensible.] Poor Frou-Frou .' 



138 THE ART OF PLATWRITING. 

6. The Close in Comedy. — The ordinary 
close in comedy is the announcement of a 
prospective wedding, or the reconciliation of 
lovers. It should come at once upon the re- 
moval of the last obstacle. A common device 
is to reserve some humorous matter, or effec- 
tive touch of nature, until the very end, and 
to bring down the curtain on that. Thus, in 
All the Rage, two of the characters, principal 
and second in a duel, go off the stage on some 
mysterious errand. The duel is averted, and 
the object of that errand seems likely to re- 
main a mystery forever, when the duelist 
thoughtlessly unbuttons his coat, and out 
tumble half a dozen tin plates, which were to 
serve as defensive armor against his antag- 
onist. The audience shouts with laughter, 
and down comes the curtain. 

This device is more artistic, if it is pre- 
pared for from the beginning of the play. 
In Daly's Seven-Twenty-Eight, for example, 
a rich aristocrat makes inquiries regarding 
the original of a picture representing a young 
lady with a dog. The hopes of the family for 
an aristocratic connection are roused to a high 
pitch. At the close, it is discovered that the 
stranger's curiosity was directed toward the 
dog, not toward the young lady. 

A good illustration of comic material left 
until the close may be taken from Wigan's 
version of Sardou's Nos Intimes (Friends or 
Foes). 

Captain. Sure, he called you Robert. 



THEORETICAL CONSTRUCTION. 139 

Union. Yes, that 's my name. 

Captain. Then, you 're not Jack Union, that we used 
to call Union Jack — supercargo in the Shamrock — 
twenty-three years ago, at Macao ? 

Union. Not I. 

Captain. Are you quite sure ? 

Union. Certain. 

Captain. No ? Then, holy Moses, what am I doing 
here ? 

Union. That 's a question I have been some time puz- 
zled to answer. 

Captain. {Angrily.] Why, confound it all, I don't 
know you from Adam. 

Union Nor I you, if you come to that. 

Captain. Well, but thunder and turf ! I 've been here 
these two days, eating, drinking, sleeping, wasting my 
time, and making myself at home, as I should at a 
friend's. Sure, it 's devilish unpleasant. 

Union. It is, indeed. 

Captain. Well, then, tare and ages ! why did n't you 
say — [Shaking hands.] However, it can't be helped, 
after all. It was n't your fault ; you are not a bad fel- 
low, and I don't bear you any grudge. 

6. Close with "Gag." — In the lighter 
forms of comedies, it is not unusual to close 
with the most effective " gag " of the piece. 
This generally leaves the spectators in a good 
humor, and gives them a saying that they are 
pretty sure to repeat to their neighbors as the 
curtain goes down. The following instance, 
from the close of Howard's Saratoga, will 
illustrate this method : — 

Sackett. But here 's a little woman, who will be more 
than a mother to me — more than a sister — brother — 
cousin — uncle — aunt — more than a mother-in-law — 
more than all the world beside — my wife. [To audi^ 



140 THE ART OF PLAY WRITING. 

ence.1 Ladies and gentlemen, — when I was a very little 
boy — 

JSjfie. There, never mind when you were a very little 
boy. 

Sackett. Young gentlemen, whenever you find a lady 
in your arms, or your heart — 

Effie. Allow her to ' ' remain in the place in which she 
originally fell. ' ' [ Curtain. ] 

Not infrequently, the last words are made 
to include the title of the play, as in the fol- 
lowing close to Albery's Ttvo Roses : — 

Grant. Mr. Jenkins, that union has been the dream of 
my life. 

Lotty. You won't part us ! 

Caleb. No, you shall bloom together, as on one tree. 

Wijatt. {^Between them.] 
One, like the rose, when June and July kiss, 
One, like the leaf-housed bud young May discloses. 
Sweetly unlike, and yet alike in this — They are, " Two 
Koses." 

7. Address to Audience. — The selection 
from Saratoga will serve to illustrate another 
custom much in vogue, that of turning to ad- 
dress the audience at the very close. This is 
an abbreviated survival of the old epilogue. 
It cannot be recommended except in the case 
of the lightest comedies. It should, in any 
event, be very short, as the audience gener- 
ally sniffs from afar devices of this sort, and 
begins putting on its overcoat as soon as the 
actors approach the footlights. 

It may be said in general that, until Amer- 
ican audiences are cultivated to the point 
where they will sit quietly until the curtain 



THEORETICAL CONSTRUCTION. 141 

dropSj playwrights will do well to end their 
dramas with, a surprise and bring the curtain 
down at unexpected points. A fine speech at 
the close is generally labor wasted. 

8. Close in Mediated Drama. ^ — In se- 
rious plays which might involve a tragic end- 
ing, but which actually end happily for the 
hero and heroine, the close is usually of a 
*' mixed" character. Some of the objection- 
able characters are put out of the way ; most 
of the well-meaning characters attain the end 
for which they are striving. A death on the 
stage at or near the close is not common in 
plays of this class. In most cases, the char- 
acter to be removed is disposed of earlier in 
the play, or his death is announced at the 
close, as the removal of a final obstacle. 
Death is not, of course, the only means by 
which characters can be put out of the way. 
They may be sent to prison or to Siberia, or 
simply made to vanish when they find their 
hopes shattered, as, e. g., De Lesparre in 
Feuillet's Tentation (Led Astray). 

Where the play is of a less serious char- 
acter, the villain may repent and be restored 
to good society, as in the case with Ernest 
Vane, in E-eade and Taylor's Masks and Faces. 

9. General Remarks on the Close. — 
(1.) In all plays, the actual fall of the 

curtain should be preceded by a situation of 

some strength, — a situation, that is, which 

1 See Chapter vii. 18. 



142 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

will leave an impression on the mind of tlie 
audience; but it need not be a situation of 
unusual strength, nor should it be one of 
great complexity. The place for strength and 
complexity is at the grand climax, where all 
the lines of action are gathered together in a 
knot. The situation at the close can only be 
the unwinding of the last strand. 

(2.) The position of the characters at the 
close forms a tableau, or stage picture, and 
should be indicated in the manuscript. The 
following instances are taken, — the first 
from Eobertson's Caste, the second from Gil- 
bert's Engaged, the third from Broughton's 
Withered Leaves : 

1st. The Marquise. {Bending over the cradle, at end, 
i?.] My grandson! [Eccles falls off the chair, in the last 
stage of drunkenness, bottle in hand. Hawtree, leaning on 
mantelpiece, by the other side of fire, looks at him through 
eye-glass. Samuel enters, and goes to Polly, B. C, behind 
cradle, and producing wedding-ring from, several papers, 
holds it up before her eyes. Piano till end.} 

[Curtain.] 

2d. [Picture. Cheviot embracing Miss Treherne, C. 
Belvawney is being comforted by Minnie, C, up stage. 
Angus is solacing Maggie, B. , and Mrs. Macfarlane is re- 
posing on Mr. Symperson's bosom, L. C] 

[Curtain.] 

3d. [Arthur affectionately places his arm in May^s. 
Tom turns, smiling, to Sir Conyers and Lady Conyers, and 
shows match-box.] 

Lady Conyers. 
Arthur. Tom. 

May. Sir Conyers, 

[Curtain.^ 



THEORETICAL CONSTRUCTION. 143 

(3.) It cannot be too often repeated that 
the close, like every other incident of the 
play, must be the result of the preceding ac- 
tion. The sudden introduction of unexpected, 
arbitrary agencies to bring about a solution of 
the plot (the deus ex Tnachina of the classic 
stage), such as the discovery of a missing 
will, or the finding of a lost treasure, is con- 
trary to all rational principles of dramatic 
construction. 



CHAPTEE XXII. 

THEATRICAL CONVENTIONALITIES. 

1. Importance of the Subject. ^ Igno- 
rance of stage limitations and conventionali- 
ties is one of the most common of the obstar 
cles that interfere with the success of the begin- 
ner. In the case of those rules of construction 
which are based upon artistic or psychological 
principles, the playwright's own natural sense 
of the fitness of things is often his safest 
guide. But, with reference to stage conven- 
tions, this is not always so. To the beginner, 
especially if his artistic sense is keen, many 
of the most binding traditions of the stage 
must at first seem thoroughly illogical and 
unnatural. Upon further acquaintance, it is 
true, they turn out to have a logic and a fit- 
ness of their own ; but no mere exercise of 
reason or intuition would ever enable him 
either to forecast them or to dispense with 
them altogether. 

2. Kinds of Conventions. — There are 
two principal classes of theatrical conven- 
tions : — 

(1.) Those arising from the peculiar con- 
struction of the theatre, and the consequent 
conditions of stage representation. 



THEATRICAL CONVENTIONALITIES. 145 

(2.) Histrionic traditions developed at va- 
rious times during the history of the stage. 

The construction of the theatre has already 
been explained in a preceding chapter, ^ an 
acquaintance with which, on the part of the 
student, will be assumed in what follows. 

3. Point of View of the Audience. — The 
stage has hut three sides. This is a point so 
often neglected, that it is worth while empha- 
sizing it by means of italics. The stage has 
a back, and a right and a left side ; but the 
front is removed in order that the audience 
may see what is going on. While in a novel 
or description, therefore, persons may be 
represented as acting in a four-sided room, 
and as seen from any and every point of view, 
in the drama they must be shown as acting 
in a room with one side removed, and as seen 
from any one of a limited number of view- 
points. From this fact the following rules 
may be deduced : — 

(1.) Every important action must take 
place in the centre of the stage, well forward. 
For this reason, strong situations must be 
made independent of scenery, unless the lat- 
ter can be brought well down to the front. 
For example, a conversation between two 
characters before the door of a house, when 
the house is painted on a flat or drop at the 
back of the stage, will, for the bulk of the 
audience, be almost wholly lost. The case 

^ See Chapter ii. 



146 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

will be still worse if tlie house is at tlie side 
and well back. In such cases, the best plan 
is to provide a front scene ; that is, one in 
which a scene is pushed out on each side, in 
the grooves at 1 E. E. and L. 

(2.) Care must be taken that, when two ac- 
tions are represented as taking place at the 
same time, one does not hide the other from 
some one of the spectators. 

(3.) The actors should not be compelled by 
any action of the drama to turn their backs 
upon the audience, ^ especially while speaking. 
Por example, if A. is down front in the centre 
when B. enters at centre rear, A. cannot speak 
to B. without turning his face directly to the 
rear. The difficulty may be avoided by mak- 
ing A. cross to the right or left before B.'s 
enter. 

4. Stage Distances. — The actual dis- 
tances on the stage do not always correspond 
to the supposed distances of the play. In 
Shakespeare's Richard III. the tents of 
Eichard and of Eichmond are shown at oppo- 
site sides of the stage, while the audience is 
expected to imagine them a mile or so apart. 

^ This rale must be insisted upon, although the cus- 
toms of the modern stage are rapidly leaving it out of 
sight. Many of the most pathetic scenes in plays that 
might be mentioned are deprived of half their effect by 
the fact that the audience is made to gaze upon the un- 
expressive back of the most important character, instead 
of upon his speaking countenance. 



THEATRICAL CONVENTIONALITIES. 147 

In modern plays this license is not usually 
taken advantage of. 

5. Changes of Scene during the Act. — 
This is a privilege so thoroughly established on 
the English stage that there is little chance for 
the unity of place ever to be revived. Never- 
theless, a protest may be entered against too 
numerous and too abrupt shifting of the lo- 
cality. The audience should in some way 
(besides the notice on the play-bill) be made 
to anticipate the nature of the change. 

In pure comedy, comedy-drama, and emo- 
tional drama, and in all plays in which the 
movement is simple and regular, the same 
scene may with profit be retained through- 
out the act. Plots in which there are many 
complications call for more frequent changes. 
The change of scene is often useful where 
two lines of action are carried on together. 
Thus, in Shakespeare's Merchant of Venice, 
the scene changes from the group of charac- 
ters at Venice to the group at Belmont, and 
thus the two are kept apart until the court 
scene. This also gives variety to the stage 
picture. 

6. Order of Scenes. — The change of scene 
may be brought about by pushing out from 
the grooves at each side scenes that shall join 
in the centre, by dropping cloths from the 
flies, by pushing up flats from the dock, or by 
lowering the drop curtain for a brief period 
while the change of scene is being made. 



148 THE ART OF PL AY WRITING. 

The order in which these changes are made 
requires some little care : — 

(1.) A front scene (see preceding para- 
graph) must be followed by a full scene. 
That is, if in one scene the flats are within 
a few feet of the front of the stage, the next 
scene should be brought about merely by 
pushing the scenery back into the wings, and 
so disclosing the full depth of the stage. 

(2.) Care must be taken not to introduce 
elaborate properties into the front scenes. 
When the flats are separated, the front of the 
stage becomes a part of the full scene, and, as 
a consequence, chairs, tables, etc., will either 
be left standing at the front, or must be car- 
ried out by the attendants amid the jeers of 
the gallery. In Act Y., Sc. 1, of Francesca da 
JRimini, Paolo and Francesca appear in a front 
scene sitting upon a settee. At the close of 
the scene, the flats are drawn apart, showing 
as a full scene the camp of Lanciotto. The 
question is, how to get rid of the settee. This 
was accomplished, in the representation given 
by Lawrence Barrett's company, by attaching 
a rope to one of the legs of the settee and 
hauling out coincidently with the movement 
of the flat. The effect, especially to those 
who could see the rope, and more particularly 
when settee and flat did not move at the same 
rate of speed, was decidedly ludicrous. 

(3.) The front scene, for the same reasons, 
must not require ^' set " pieces of any sort 



THEATRICAL CONVENTIONALITIES. 149 

To see huge rocks gliding off the stage at the 
sound of the prompter's whistle excites a 
feeling of incongruity, even in those who lay 
little stress upon theatrical realism. 

(4.) If a front scene, in the middle of an 
act, is to be followed by a full scene of con- 
siderable elaborateness, sufB.cient time must 
be allowed for the stage hands to get the 
stage set. The average time required to set 
a drawing-room or palace-scene is about eight 
minutes ; but this will not serve as a rule to 
go by in every case. A little timing of the 
performance of actual plays is the surest 
method of acquiring experience in this matter, 
though much may be learned from an exami- 
nation of printed plays. 

(5.) As the noise made in setting a scene 
is sometimes considerable, the front scene 
should be of a loud and stirring character. 
All attempts at subtile character-drawing or 
tender pathos are likely to be frustrated by 
the banging of hammers and the rumbling of 
stage machinery. 

7. Stage Entrances. — An " interior " is 
conventionally allowed to have as many en- 
trances as the dramatist chooses to give it - — 
as far, of course, as the construction of the 
stage will allow. (See diagrams of Interiors 
in Chapter V.) Thus a room will frequently 
be represented, in violation of all probability, 
as having three or four entrances at each 
side. Except in the lightest comedy, it is 



150 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

better to restrict the number. The conven- 
tional distribution of entrances has already 
been referred to.^ 

8. Stage Doors. — Stage doors, in interi- 
ors, are generally made to open outward. If 
the exigencies of the play demand that a 
door open inward, the fact should be stated 
in the manuscript. 

9. Stage Traditions. — These are of three 
general classes : — 

(1.) Those relating to stage time. 
(2.) Those relating to dialogues. 
(3.) Those relating to costume. 

10. Stage Time. — Stage time moves fast 
or slow according to the desire of the drama- 
tist. Generally the supposed duration of 
events upon the stage is about five or six 
times as long as the actual period occupied 
by the representation. That is, at the end 
of a dialogue of five minutes, it is allowable 
to make one of the characters say, "Here 
we 've been talking for a whole half-hour ; " 
or, if at one stage of the play, a clock outside 
strikes four, it may be made to strike five 
after a lapse of ten to fifteen minutes. The 
justification of this license is found in the 
fact that the spectator, if really interested, 
takes no note of time. A tragic situation, or 
one in which the element of suspense is 
strong, may seem to last for hours. This 
privilege is sometimes pushed to a great ex- 

^ See Chapters v. and vi. 



THEATRICAL CONVENTIONALITIES. 151 

treme in the case of persons sent on errands, 
etc. A character will re-enter after a lapse of 
three minutes and recount adventures that 
would demand several hours for their actual 
occurrence. The skillful dramatist will man-^, 
age to divert attention from these seeming 
inconsistencies by concentrating interest on 
the characters or the action. 

11. Writing Letters, etc. — Letters or 
other documents written in the presence of the 
audience usually proceed at the rate employed 
in speaking very deliberately. The actor 
does not, of course, do any actual writing. 
Such letters should always be brief, as the 
discrepancy between the movement of the 
pen and the rate of speed in speaking the 
contents soon grows ridiculous. For the actor 
to speak at all while writing is in most cases 
a pure convention.^ 

12. Time between Acts. — Any period of 
time may be supposed to elapse between 
acts. If the period extends to several years, 
however, the play is really divided into two 
distinct parts. When the long interval comes 
after the first act, the latter is really no more 
than a prologue. Most frequently it comes 
just before the last act. The time assumed 
to pass during the other entr'actes should be 
as short as possible. 

^ One of the most conventional and at the same time 
most effective spoken scenes during- the writing of a let- 
ter, — the whole scene being a long monologue, — is to 
be found in Brouson Howard's One of Our Girls. 



152 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

13. Conventionalities of the Dialogue. 

— Many of the most important conventional- 
ities of the dialogue have been already dis- 
cussed,^ and need not be here dwelt upon. 
However, a few cautions regarding the use of 
the monologue, the " apart " and the " aside " 
will not be out of place. 

14. The Monologue. — In most modern 
plays, monologues are principally employed 
to enlighten the audience upon matters not 
easily conveyed in the way of action. They 
are the pitfalls of young and inexperienced 
playwrights, who are forever attempting to 
crowd into a monologue whatever they can- 
not compel their characters to utter in dia- 
logues ; nor do the old hands at the trade 
come off altogether blameless of this subter- 
fuge. Used in moderation the monologue 
may be made very effective ; but the beginner 
will do well to pass it by on the other side, 
reserving it as the last resource in surmount- 
ing what proves to be an otherwise insuper- 
able obstacle to the action of the drama. 

15. The Apart. — The apart is little more 
than a short monologue, its distinctive char- 
acteristic being that it occurs in the midst of 
a dialogue. It is at the same time something 
separate from the dialogue itself, and yet a 
potent factor in the total representative ef- 
fect. An affirmative sentence, for instancCj 

1 See Chapter vii., Nos. 7, 13, 15, 17 ; ako Chapter viii., 
Nos. 4, 7, 9, 11. 



THEATRICAL CONVENTIONALITIES. 153 

may be made to convey to tlie audience a 
negative meaning by prefixing or suffixing a 
significant apart. Thus the unctuous villain : 
^'Indeed, sir, you may depend upon me — 
[^apart'] to pull the wool over your eyes." 
Here the audience is presented with two con- 
tradictory ideas, the first belonging to the 
story proper, the second to the plot. The 
apart is intended for the audience ; the audi- 
ence alone is supposed to hear it. Neverthe- 
less, an apart should never be addressed di- 
rectly to the audience. On the whole, the 
apart is to be used sparingly. The audience 
should hear an apart and understand its 
value, and yet not oe conscious how and 
when this additional information was given. 
To attain this end, two rules must be ob- 
served : 

(1.) The apart should be worded in such a 
way that it will not obtrude upon the con- 
sciousness of the audience as an appeal to its 
interest or sympathy. 

(2.) In the second place, the actor, in de- 
livering the apart, should address his own 
inner consciousness — or anything except the 
audience before him.^ 

1 This pertains more to acting than to the art of play- 
writing-. We take advantage of this opportunity to 
guard the beginner against relying too much upon an 
actor's ability in this direction. On the whole, actors 
have a great dislike for aparts and asides, and, if these 
are not very carefully worded, often find it difficult to 
do justice to their lines. 



154 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

16. The Aside. — The aside is of mucli 
the same nature as the apart. It is likewise 
intended for the audience only ; but it differs 
from the apart proper in that it is addressed 
to a character on the stage, is heard by him 
and by the audience, but is supposed not to 
be heard by the other character or clmracters 
present. All that has been said of the apart 
is true of the aside. ^ 

17. The Stage Whisper. — The stage 
whisper, except as a broadly comic effect, is 
out of date. Aparts and asides are now de- 
livered in an ordinary tone of voice, the fact 
that they are not intended to be heard by 
others than those to whom they are addressed 
being implied by the action. 

18. Reletting Known Events. — Many 
conventions of the dialogue arise from the 
necessities of exposition. One of the most 
common is to make two characters relate to 
each other facts with which both are familiar. 
Thus in Robertson's Home, Mountraffe and 
Mrs. Pinchbeck converse as follows : 

Mount. Did n't you get married ? 

Mrs. P. To a man old enough to be my father. 

Mount. What of that ? I thought he had plenty of the 
ready. 

Mrs. P. He hadn't a penny. 

Mount. No, the old villain, so I found out when it was 
too late. 

1 See article by the author in the Forum for February, 
1890, from which the above on the monologue, apart 
and aside has been taken. 



THEATRICAL CONVENTIONALITIES. 155 

19. Unimportant Dialogues. — Certain 
lines in every play are almost certain not to 
be heard by the majority of the audience. 
The dramatist must, therefore, avoid putting 
into them anything very essential for the 
audience to know. They are usually : — 

(1.) The first few words of the play. The 
confusion in the audience during the first 
minute or so after the curtain rises renders 
it impossible for any except those in the 
front rows to hear what is said on the stage. 
Many dramatists make a practice of throwing 
in at the beginning a short lively scene of no 
relevancy whatever to the rest of the play 
just to get the audience quiet. 

(2.) The lines following a "laugh" or a 
round of applause. These places the drama- 
tist cannot always anticipate, and plays some- 
times require remodelling simply because the 
" laugh " comes in at unexpected points. 

20. Costume. — Only when absolutely 
necessary to the character or movement of 
the play need the costumes of the actors be 
described in the manuscript. For instance, 
the mere statement " eccentric costume " will 
usually suffice for all cases of grotesque vari- 
ations from the conventional. 

An actor should not, in general, be required 
to do anything on the stage which will dis- 
turb his '^ make up." Actors do not like to 
wash their hands on the stage, rumple their 
hair, wipe their eyes, etc. 



156 THE ART OF FLAT WRITING. 

The personal likes and dislikes of tlie ac- 
tors in the cast, so far as they can be ascer- 
tained, must be kept constantly in mind. 
Two similar characters should be avoided. 
In case there are two characters of about the 
same ability, the part of one should not be 
allowed to fall in strength below that of the 
other. Stage superstitions must also be 
looked after. They may be learned from a 
five minutes' conversation with any actor. 
The writer knows of one play that was re- 
jected because a character in it was made to 
remark to another that he ^' would meet him 
in thirteen minutes." 



CHAPTEE XXIIL 

HOW TO WRITE A PLAY. 

Blocking Out. 

1. Getting to 'Work. — The theoretical 
construction of a play has been set forth in 
the preceding chapters. Let us now consider 
the process actually pursued by the playwright 
in putting his material into shape. We will 
suppose that the young author has been given 
a commission to write a light comedy for a 
stock company with from eight to ten char- 
acters, including servants, etc. His only in- 
structions are, that there shall be plenty of 
incidents and a little chance for the emotional 
on the part of the leading lady. 

If the playwright is acquainted with the 
company, he will probably arrange his char- 
acters to fit the personal peculiarities of the 
actors, so that each one may be given an op- 
portunity to display his best points. A play 
written on commission, with full knowledge 
of those who are to play it, thus has a great 
advantage over one written at hap-hazard. On 
the other hand, a play written for a special 
company may not fit any other, and hence 
may not be so salable as one constructed on 
a more flexible plan. 



158 THE ART OF PLAY WRITING. 

2. Selection of the Story. — The first act 
of tlie playwright will be to find a suitable 
story. He will turn, we may suppose, to his 
scrap-book, or index rerum, or whatever recep- 
tacle he may have for stray ideas ; and will 
there find, perhaps, some such crude outline 
as this : — 

" A young woman and an elderly woman in 
love with the same man." 

3. Expansion of the Story. — This is at 
once seen to be a good basis for a story ; but, 
of course, it needs filling out. In the first 
place, it provides for but three characters, a 
gentleman and two ladies. A little reflection 
on the complications that are likely to arise 
will suggest that the conflict may be height- 
ened by adding a male character who is in 
love with the elderly lady, and whom the 
elderly lady greatly respects, though she does 
not love him. There is a good reason for this 
in the necessity usually found in comedy, of 
pairing off the principal characters at the 
close. If one of the ladies gets the object of 
her choice, the second may consent to accept 
the other man. Locating the story, for the 
nonce, in France, and giving names to the 
characters, the plot now runs in this way : — 

" Leonie (the young woman) and the Coun- 
tess (the elderly lady), are in love with Henri. 
Gu stave is in love with the Countess, who 
greatly respects him, and might marry him 
were it not for Henri. In the end Leonie 



HOW TO WRITE A PLAT. 159 

gets Henri, and the Countess accepts Gus- 
tave.'' 

4. Questions and Answers. — Pondering 
over this story will probably suggest the fol- 
lowing questions and answers : — 

(1.) Qu. How can the conflict of interests 
between Leonie and the Countess be made 
more complex ? 

Ans. By making Leonie some relative of 
the Countess, say a niece, and her protegee as 
well. 

(2.) Qu. In what way can the Countess 
and Leonie be made to show their love for 
Henri ? 

Ans. Suppose Henri to be in some serious 
danger. Then each can use her best efforts 
to extricate him. He will thus be under obli- 
gation to the one who saves his life. If this 
one is not the woman he loves, still further 
complication will ensue. 

(3.) Qu. What shall be the peril to which 
Henri is exposed ? 

Ans. Make him a fugitive from justice, 
say a conspirator against the government. 
Have him take refuge in the Countess's house, 
at her desire, and remain there in disguise. 
This will bring him in contact with all the 
other characters. It will also give Leonie a 
chance to fall in love with him without know- 
mg who he really is, and so open the way to 
several interesting situations. An officer of 
the government may come with a company 
of soldiers to the house to arrest him. 



160 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

(4.) Qu. How shall the Countess conduct 
herself toward Gustave ? 

Ans. The Countess respects Gustave, and, 
as she is to accept him in the end, she had 
better be made to show that she has, at the 
bottom of her heart, some fondness for him. 
During the play, however, she will probably 
find him in the way, and she may even ask 
him to sacrifice himself for Henri. 

(5.) Qu. What shall be the relations be- 
tween the Countess and Leonie ? 

Ans. The Countess loves her protegee, and 
is in duty bound to regard her interests. This 
gives an opportunity for two fine situations, — 
one when the Countess discovers that Leonie 
is in love with Henri ; another, when she dis- 
covers that Henri is in love with Leonie, but 
thinks himself bound to the Countess because 
the latter has saved his life. This leaves the 
Countess struggling between equally unpleas- 
ant alternatives. 

(6.) Qu. How can the Countess be made 
to hope for success against the younger charms 
of Leonie ? 

Ans. Make Gustave a young man, say 
twenty-five. If Gustave can love her, why 
should not Henri do the same ? She may 
even experiment, so to speak, on Gustave, and 
so arouse false hopes in his heart. This gives 
a chance for a capital comic situation, in 
which the Countess, delighted to find that she 
can be loved by a young man, and therefore 



HOW TO WRITE A PLAY. 161 

Is still a formidable rival to Leonie, encour- 
ages poor Gustave to declare himself. 

(7.) Qu. Shall Leonie know who Henri 
really is ? 

Ans. It will be better to have Leonie 
think at first that Henri is actually a servant. 
Several amusing situations may be made out 
of this misunderstanding. 

5. Importance of Taking Notes. — This 
process of question and answer should be car- 
ried on until all possible complications have 
been exhausted. Naturally, many ideas will 
suggest themselves which will afterwards 
turn out to be impracticable ; strong situa- 
tions will be imagined, which, as the story 
develops, will be found out of harmony with 
the rest of the plot. All these superfluous 
suggestions will, at the proper time, be thrown 
aside as useless ; but, at the beginning, the 
playwright should jot down everything, hel- 
ter-skelter, just as it comes into his head. 
The imagination is never so lively as when it 
is upon the track of a new idea. All sorts 
of characters, scenes, and situations, throng 
through the mind. What particular images 
are destined to be fixed, and what thrown 
away, the playwright cannot at this point de- 
termine. Moreover, a good situation is al- 
ways valuable property, and may form the 
nucleus of another play. It not infrequently 
happens that a playwright, while blocking 
out a play upon a plot already half completed, 



162 THE ART OF PLAY WRITING. 

will chance upon some new idea for which he 
will abandon all that he has previously accom- 
plished. 

6. Arranging the Material. — When the 
playwright finds the first rush of imagination 
beginning to flag somewhat, he may set about 
the work of putting the material into system- 
atic order. If his brain has been actively at 
work, the pages of his note-book will probably 
present a chaotic mass of suggestions regard- 
ing characters, names, situations, dialogue, 
scenery, stage - setting, and even costume. 
From these he may at first pick out whatever 
seems available, under the following heads : — 

(1.) Characters. 

(2.) Situations. 

As these are brought together in their 
proper order, careful judgment must be exer- 
cised to choose what is most suitable to the 
plot, so far as it has developed itself. New 
ideas will also probably occur, which may 
now be set down in their rightful connection. 

7. Characters. — These, as has already 
been pointed out, are not to be selected arbi- 
trarily, but with due reference to the action 
and the part they are to play in it. Suppos- 
ing the proper care to have been observed, the 
following may be the form which the notes 
will take : — 

(1.) The Countess D^Autreval. Leading 
lady. Aged 32. Dashing, self-possessed, full 
of wit, resource, and finesse. Capable of out- 



HOW TO WRITE A PLAY. 163 

witting any number of government spies. 
Generous enough to forgive Leonie for loving 
Henri, but not the sort of woman to give up 
without a struggle. Deeply infatuated with 
Henri, but retaining great admiration for 
Gustavo. 

(2.) Leonie de la Villegontier. Ingenue^ 
aged 16. An orphan, and protegee of the 
Countess. Innocent, impulsive and indiscreet. 
The kind to fall in love at first sight. 

(3.) Henri de Flavigneul. Lover, aged 22. 
Brave, reckless and impulsive. (The offense 
for which he has been condemned to death is 
perhaps some reckless act of generosity mis- 
construed as conspiracy.) Is in disguise as 
the Countess's groom and goes by the name 
of Charles. 

(4.) Gustave de Grignon. Comedian (with 
touch of sentiment). Aged 25. Tries to be 
brave in order to please the Countess, but has 
a natural shrinking from danger. He imag- 
ines all sorts of perilous situations in which 
he wins the favor of the Countess by his 
courage, but when the actual trial comes he 
wavers. At the last critical moment his 
native manhood asserts itself and he becomes 
a hero. ( Suggestion : For humorous effect, he 
might pretend to have inherited two different 
natures ; one, of caution, from his father ; 
another, of reckless daring, from his mother.) 

(5.) Baron de Montrichard. Heavy, aged 
45. General in the French army. Sly, sus- 



164 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

picious and relentless. Prides himself on his 
cunning. Very polite to the ladies. 

(6-9.) A Brigadier ; two Gendarmes ; a 
Servant. These may be walking gentlemen. 
Perhaps the first may be given a few lines. 

8. Synopsis of Situations. — These may 
be set down in any order at first, and after- 
wards arranged, but it will save time if the 
order of the story is followed as nearly as it 
can be anticipated. 

(1.) Leonie, believing Henri to be an ordi- 
nary servant, is indignant at what she con- 
siders his presumption, and tries to make him 
" keep his place." 

(2.) Leonie while out riding is run away 
with by her horse. Her life is saved by 
Henri, who is in attendance upon her as 
groom. Leonie is angry at Henri's familiar- 
ity, and he confesses that he is not a servant. 
Leonie proceeds to fall in love with him. 

(3.) Leonie recounts her adventure to the 
Countess and ends by telling the latter that 
she is in love with Henri. Situation for the 
Countess, in which she displays contending 
emotions. 

(4.) The Countess in doubt whether she is 
young enough to capture Henri. Gustavo 
shows some signs of emotion. The Countess 
leads him on to make a proposal. The Coun- 
tess shows great delight, which Gustavo in- 
terprets as a favorable answer. 

(5). The Baron has come to arrest Henri 



HOW TO WRITE A PLAY. 165 

The latter, in his disguise as servant, waits 
upon the Baron. The Baron offers him a 
bribe to tell where Henri is concealed, and 
Henri accepts the money. 

(6.) The Countess defies the Baron to find 
Henri. 

(7.) The Baron has an interview with Le- 
onie, who, terrified out of her senses, unwit- 
tingly discloses that Henri is disguised as 
one of the servants. She implores mercy of 
the Baron, who laughs at her. Leonie's self- 
reproach before Henri and the Countess. 

(8.) Secret joy of the Countess that it is 
Leonie who has brought Henri into danger. 
She feels confident that if she now saves 
Henri's life, he will be bound to love her. 

(9.) The Countess proposes to Gustave to 
dress himself in Henri's clothes and allow 
himself to be arrested. Gustave's struggle 
with himself. He finally consents. 

(10.) The Baron arrests Gustave, disguised 
as the groom. 

(11.) - Henri's gratitude. The Countess 
thinking that he is in love with her, confesses 
her love for him. 

(12.) The Baron sends Henri away, on his 
own horse, on an errand, thus giving him a 
chance to escape. 

(13.) Comic situation in which the Baron 
describes to Gustave the way in which he 
will be shot. Gustave's terror. He is about 
to assert that he is not Henri, but is re- 



166 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

strained by the entrance of the Countess. 
Rage of the Baron when he discovers the 
trick. 

(14.) Scene between Countess and Leonie. 
Leonie in despair. Henri has told her he is 
bound to another. Joy of the Countess. 
But, Leonie adds, it is only by gratitude, not 
by love. Despair of the Countess, who re- 
solves to give him up. 

(15.) Henri returns. He has heard that 
Gustave is to be shot in his place, and will 
not allow him to be sacrificed. 

(16.) The Countess gives Henri to Leonie. 

(17.) Arrival of an amnesty pardoning 
Henri. 

In practical work it will be found advisable 
to write down the incidents on separate slips, 
which can be arranged in any desired order, 
transposed at will, and supplemented at any 
particular stage of the story. 



CHAPTEE XXIV. 

HOW TO WRITE A PLAY {continued). 

Rearrangement. 

1. Order of "Work. — If we may assume 
the process described in the foregoing chapter 
actually to have taken place, the play is now 
well under way. In its general outlines it 
has arrived at a definite form in the mind of 
the dramatist. The chaotic mass of sugges- 
tions has been purged of most of its irrele- 
vant matter and the remainder has taken the 
form of a completely developed organism 
with a beginning, a middle and an end. We 
have as yet, however, only a skeleton, with 
here and there an occasional nerve or blood 
vessel. Enough has been constructed, per- 
haps, to show the possibilities of the play ; it 
may already be seen whether it has situations 
that will make it live, characters that will 
satisfy the demands of the performers ; but 
much still remains to be done before the 
rough draft can be made to assume dramatic 
form. As the methods pursued in the pro- 
cess of amplification differ much with differ- 
ent playwrights, no cast-iron rules can be 
laid down. Here, as everywhere else, how- 



168 THE ART OF PLAY WRITING. 

ever, it is best to observe some systematic 
order, and the following is perhaps the most 
natural : — 

(1.) Exposition. 

(2.) Order of incidents. 

(3.) Division into acts. 

(4.) Outline of scenes.^ 

(5.) Dialogue. 

2. Exposition. — It is very important 
that the matter which is to be set forth in the 
exposition be carefully determined upon before 
the actual writing of the play begins. The 
young dramatist usually sets about his work 
by writing the first few scenes of the play. 
This done, be finds that certain unanticipated, 
explanations are necessary before he can go 
any further. Now dialogue, once written, is 
one of the hardest things in the world to re- 
construct. The writer finds no point at 
which he can interrupt it to insert his exposi- 
tory matter. As a consequence, he either 
drags the latter in, head and heels, where it 
does not belong, or, if he is wiser, throws 
away the whole composition and begins again 
on a more systematic plan. 

Under the subject of exposition we may 
consider : — 

(1.) What is to be told. 

(2.) How it shall be told. 

(3.) Preparing for later incidents. 

(4.) Length of the exposition. 

^ Nos. 4 and 5 are discussed in Chapter xxv. 



HOW TO WRITE A PLAY. 169 

3. What is to be Told. — The safe rule is 
to tell as little as possible. In th.e first place, 
the story should be so selected and arranged 
that few presuppositions will be required in 
order to comprehend it as the action goes on ; 
and in the second place, all insignificant de- 
tails should be left to the imagination of the 
spectator, or simply ignored. In the case of 
the play under consideration, the playwright 
might, in his exposition, give full' details of 
the past life of Leonie. He might inform 
the audience that she was the daughter of a 
rich merchant of Paris, who had the most ex- 
traordinary adventures during a street riot, 
and so on, indefinitely. Nothing, however, 
could more aptly mark the handiwork of the 
unskillful dramatist. These details would be 
wholly irrelevant to the story, and would add 
nothing to the effect that Leonie produces on 
the audience. If the spectators see a young 
girl who is pretty, interesting, and amusing, 
they will not care whether her father was a 
merchant or a hackman. On the other hand, 
details that materially add to the effective- 
ness of Leonie's appearance, and the strength 
of the situations in which she is an actor, 
should not be left out of account. It may be 
worth while, for example, to give the audience 
to understand that she is an orphan, depend- 
ent on the Countess for protection and sym- 
pathy, for this will both win interest for the 
girl, and render the Countess's position more 



170 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

perplexing when the struggle comes between, 
love and duty. Perhaps the following are the 
most important points to be brought out in 
the exposition : — 

(1.) Leonie's relations to the Countess. 

(2.) The fact that Charles, the groom, is 
Henri in disguise. 

(3.) The reason for the disguise. 

(4.) The fact that the Baron is coming 
(with a warrant for Henri's death) to search 
the house. 

(5.) The Countess's love for Henri. 

(6.) Gustave's love for the Countess. 

(7.) The names and some of the peculiari- 
ties of all the characters. 

Leonie's love for Henri will probably begin 
during the progress of the play. 

4. How it shall be Told. — As pointed 
out elsewhere, the best method of exposition 
is by implication ; ^ that is, by so contriving 
the action that the explanatory matter will at 
the same time be conveyed to the apprehen- 
sion of the audience. This method, however, 
is not in all cases practicable. Where the 
fact to be explained consists of numerous de- 
tails, or is for any other reason not easy of 
comprehension, a more direct method is justi- 
fiable. An examination of the seven points 
of the exposition, given in the last paragraph, 
will show that all except Nos. 1 and 4 can be 
embodied in the action. 

1 See Chapter xvii. 4, 5, 13, 14, 16. 



HOW TO WRITE A PLAY. 171 

(1.) Leonie's relations to the Countess will 
be easily apparent from a conversation be- 
tween tlieni on almost any topic. Much can 
be implied in the acting, by looks, tones of 
voice, etc. 

(2.) If No. 1 of the synopsis of scenes, 
given in the last chapter, is used, Henri's con- 
duct and manners before Leonie will indicate 
to the audience that he is not what his livery 
would indicate him to be. He can be shown 
wiser than his station, he can be made to 
quote poetry, pass judgment on art, discuss 
politics, etc., in a way that will convince the 
audience that he is masquerading, 

(3.) The reasons for Henri's disguise, the 
nature of his crime against the government, 
the circumstances of his coming to the Coun- 
tess's chateau, etc., will obviously be much too 
complicated to be told in any form except 
narrative. There are several expedients that 
can be resorted to, however, to break up the 
monotony of a formal recital and to give the 
narrative life and action. 

(a.) The facts may be brought out not in 
one scene, but in several. We may have one 
or two particulars told in one place, then after 
a scene or two a few more, and so on. Per- 
haps the first recital may be interrupted, leav- 
ing the hearer in suspense for a few moments. 

(b.) The facts may be narrated partly by 
one person, partly by another ; partly in one 
way, partly in another. For example, in an 



172 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

early scene, the Countess may be represented 
as receiving a letter from Henri's mother, 
begging that she will protect him from the 
consequences of his indiscretion. 

Later on, a scene may occur in which Henri, 
at the request of the Countess, relates the cir- 
cumstances of his escapade. 

The employment of a letter as a means to 
convey information which would otherwise 
have to be told directly, is one of the most 
convenient of stage devices, — so very con- 
venient, that in some plays that might be 
mentioned, it has been absurdly overdone. 
The practice is ridiculed in Daly's A Night 
Off, where the Eoman maiden of a play is, 
after many vicissitudes, finally reduced to " a 
letter on a stump." There can be no objec- 
tion, of course, to a moderate employment of 
the letter as a method of exposition. 

(c.) As before suggested, the narrative 
should give chances for dramatic action. 
These might be found in abundance in the 
scene just referred to. Henri could be made 
to relate with great vivacity some noble and 
generous exploit, to which the Countess, al- 
ready in love with him, listens with great dis- 
play of emotion, interrupting the recital at 
intervals by exclamations of sympathy. 

(4.) The coming of the Baron may be an- 
nounced to Henri by the Countess, as a reason 
why he should preserve greater discretion; 
and the fact that he has been condemned to 



HOW TO WRITE A PLAY. 173 

death may be read by some one in a news- 
paper paragraph. 

(5.) The actress who takes the part of the 
Countess may be depended upon, if she knows 
her business, to show her feeling toward 
Henri, even without the saying of a word. It 
will be well, of course, to provide scenes in 
which this opportunity will be given her, and 
as this is an important factor in the play, it 
may be well to give the Countess a few lines 
of soliloquy that will remove all chance of 
doubt. 

(6.) The remark made in the preceding 
paragraph will apply here also ; that is, Grus- 
tave may be allowed to indicate his passion 
by his actions ; but a more definite statement 
of the situation is preferable. 

(7.) The way in which the names and char- 
acteristics of the personages are told should 
be varied as much as possible. Henri can, of 
course, be addressed as Charles by Leonie, and 
as Henri by the Countess. His full name may 
be read by the Countess in the letter, or it 
may occur in the newspaper paragraph an- 
nouncing his condemnation. Gustave, upon 
his first entry, may be announced by a ser- 
vant. The Baron's name in full can be men- 
tioned by the Countess when warning Henri 
of his approach. The announcement of the 
name may, in all except the case of Gustave, 
be accompanied by some word or phrase de- 
scriptive of character j as, for example, the 



174 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

Countess may say, " Leonie, foolish girl, what 
are you doing ? " or, " Henri, impulsive as 
ever, I see," or, " Look out for the Baron de 
Montrichard ; he is a cunning old fox," etc. 

6. Preparing for Later Incidents. — It 
is an excellent plan to introduce into the very 
beginning of the play matter which will serve 
as preparation for incidents occurring much 
later. It is true of all plays, but especially 
true of comedy, that the spectator experiences 
a peculiar delight when, at the close, he finds 
an incident directly resulting from some fact 
made prominent at the beginning. Thus, in 
the Lady of Lyons, Pauline is represented as 
receiving flowers from some unknown source. 
This fact is simply noted as something mys- 
terious. Later on we learn that they are sent 
by Claude Melnotte. In the play in hand, 
the last incident is to be the arrival of the 
amnesty that secures Henri's freedom. It 
will be advisable, therefore, in perhaps the 
first scene, to introduce some reference to an 
expected amnesty. It may perhaps be re- 
ferred to in the letter, which the Countess 
receives from Henri's mother, as something 
hoped for, 

6. Length of the Exposition. — As has 
been said, the exposition should be over with 
at least by the time one fifth of the play 
has been performed. If the incidents in the 
series given in the last chapter are about equi- 
distant, the exposition should not go beyond 
Ko. 3. 



\ 



HOW TO WRITE A PLAY. 175 

7. Order of Incidents. — The general order 
of incidents will be apparent, of course, from 
the trend of the story, but many will be found 
which seemingly might occur in one place 
as well as another. To determine whether 
the proper order of incidents has been ob= 
served in the first rough outline, it will be 
well to settle, first of all, what is to be the 
grand climax. The end will, of course, be the 
union of Leonie and Henri, and the pardon of 
the latter. Consequently, the grand climax 
must come at the point where this conclusion 
seems most hopeless, the point at which most 
obstacles have collected. A careful consider- 
ation of the synopsis of situations will show 
that No. 11 best answers this requirement. 
At that point, Henri seems pledged to accept 
the Countess's love, while Leonie seems to 
have forfeited all claim to his regard. The 
plot may be represented by the following dia- 
gram : — 

The Countess declares 
her love. 




HenrVs The Countess relinquishes 
arrival. Henri to Leonie. 

The proper arrangement of the incidents 
requires : — 

(1.) That all up to the point where the 



176 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

Countess tells Henri of her love should be of 
the nature of complication ^ j all from the 
point to the close, of the nature of solution.^ 

(2.) That the incidents in the growth be 
arranged to form a climax, each situation be- 
ing stronger than the preceding. 

(3.) That the incidents after the climax, 
while they serve to untie the knot, be so ar- 
ranged that not all the suspense shall be de- 
stroyed until the very close. 

The student should carefully examine the 
synopsis of situations in the preceding chap- 
ter, — observe whether the order given satis- 
fies the above requirements, and try various 
arrangements until the best order is settled 
upon. 

8. Incidents not Represented on the 
Stage. — Among the incidents will probably 
be found some which are not suitable for 
stage representation. These may either be 
thrown out altogether, or, if too good to be 
rejected, may be related by some one of the 
participants. Thus incident No. 2, that of 
Leonie's being saved by Henri, is at once 
seen to be unavailable for scenic purposes. 
It is nevertheless an effective incident, and 
one not to be lightly thrown away. It may 
be retained by putting the recital of the 
rescue in the mouth of Leonie, who can tell 
the Countess a dramatic story ending with 
the confession of her love for Henri. 

^ See Chapter xviii. ^ See Chapter xx. 



HOW TO WRITE A PLAY. 177 

9. Division into Acts. — As pointed at 

elsewhere,^ the division into acts is purely 
conventional, and so differs from the division 
into exposition, growth, etc., which is entirely 
logical and natural. Nevertheless, from a 
practical point of view the first is the most 
important. Good plays may be written (and 
have been written) by men who have never 
heard of the theoretical divisions; but igno- 
rance of the meaning and principles of the 
division into acts would mean inevitable fail- 
ure. General usage regarding the number of 
acts proper to various kinds of plays has al- 
ready been given. ^ We have here to consider 
the act in its relation to the progress of the 
story. 

10. Principles of Division. — At the end 
of the act, the curtain falls. This means : — 

(1.) That one division of the play has 
come to an end. 

(2.) That (excepting the case of the last 
act) the action of the play will be suspended 
for a short time. Eemembering that two 
great principles of dramatic construction are 
climax and suspense, we shall be led to the 
following conclusions : — 

(a.) The conclusion of the act, since it 
marks a stage in the progress of the play, 
should be a climax. 

(b.) Since the action of the play is to be 
interrupted, in order to hold the attention of 

1 See Chapter x. 1, 2, 8. ^ gee Chapter x. 8. 



178 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

the audience over the intervening period, the 
conclusion of the act must be so arranged as 
to leave the spectator in a state of strong sus- 
pense. 

This is especially true of modern plays» In 
the plays of Shakespeare, and in the older 
drama generally, the conclusion of the act is 
often a scene of no particular impressiveness, 
possessing the force neither of climax nor of 
suspense. In modern plays this cannot be 
endured. The curtain must be brought down 
upon the very culmination of the climax, and 
the climax must be of a character to fill the 
audience with an eager desire to see the be- 
ginning of the next act. For this reason, in 
the acting editions of Shakespeare, the acts 
are re-arranged, so as to comply with modern 
requirements. 

11. Application of the Principles. — In 
the play we are considering, the point at 
which the close of the act will fall will be 
determined approximately by the number of 
acts into which the playwright decides to 
divide it. If he is writing the play to order, 
he will probably receive instructions to pro- 
vide for a certain number of acts according to 
the fancy of the person for whom it is writ- 
ten. If he is writing upon speculation, or is 
at liberty to decide for himself, he will prob- 
ably in this case conclude, in accordance 
with the suggestions given elsewhere, that 
three is the proper number of acts for this 



HOW TO WRITE A PLAY. 179 

style of play.^ Tlie close of tlie first and 
second acts will, therefore, fall at points re- 
spectively about one third and two thirds of 
the distance from the beginning to the close. 
Let ns first inquire at what point Act. I. may 
properly close. 

Consulting the synopsis of situations, we 
find that both Nos. 3 and 4 seem to answer 
the requirements of position. The question 
then is, which best observes the demands of 
climax and suspense. A little reflection will 
show that ISTo. 3 is inferior in both respects, 

(1.) In the first place, the climax involved 
in the confession of Leonie is purely emotion- 
al, and therefore should not be strongly em- 
phasized and dwelt upon in what is intended 
for a comedy. If the audience, during the 
entr'acte, are made to ponder upon this scene, 
they will get the impression that the play is 
an emotional drama, and so fail to appreciate 
it in its true character. The second situation, 
on the other hand, possesses strong comedy 
features in the absurdity of Gustave's posi- 
tion. It is really, therefore, for the present 
play, the stronger climax of the two. 

(2.) The suspense is stronger in the second 
situation. The probabilities are that Leonie 
and Henri will come together at the close. 
The audience feels this, and is naturally in 
sympathy with such a termination of the 
plot. Suspense will arise, therefore, when 
i See Chapter x. 8 (7). 



180 THE ART OF PLAY WRITING. 

some obstacle seems thrown in the way of 
this method of closing. If the curtain falls 
on the confession of Leonie the general sen- 
timent will be, *' Well, Leonie is going to 
marry him, of course," and the suspense will 
be reduced almost to zero. On the other 
hand, every event which seems to indicate 
that the Countess may possibly capture Henri 
arouses suspense. Gustave can love the 
Countess ; why may not Henri do the same ? 
A second element of suspense arises from the 
fact of Gustave's being deceived. What will 
happen when he discovers how he has been 
played upon ? How will the Countess carry 
it off ? All these queries make the spectator 
eager to have the curtain rise again and the 
story continue. 

A precisely similar course of reasoning will 
probably lead to the adoption of No. 8 as the 
best situation for the close of Act II. 

The student should refer at this point to 
the discussion, in Chapter xvi. 4, of the ques- 
tion whether the spectator should be let into 
the secret of the close. Its application in 
the present instance will be readily seen. 



CHAPTEE XXV. 

HOW TO WRITE A PLAY (continuect). 

Filling In. 

1. Outline of Scenes. — The next stage of 
the work is very difficult in practice, and one 
concerning which, no very sa^tisfactory princi- 
ples can be laid down. The general move- 
ment of the characters of the play is now 
definitely settled upon, together with all the 
important situations resulting from their col- 
lisions. It remains to indicate in detail the 
successive steps by which the situations are 
brought about ; that is, the actual entrees and 
exits of the characters, and their actions while 
on the stage. This may be best done by brief 
sketches or outlines of each scene in its proper 
order, noting in the fewest possible words the 
characteristic facts. The following outline of 
a scene in Act I. will serve as an example : — . 

Enter Leonie D. R.l E., in riding habit. Countess sends 
Henri to see after horse. Exit Henri, C. L. Enter Gus- 
tave, C. L. Brief conversation with Countess. Enter 
Henri, C. L., etc. 

The word " scene " is used in this chapter, 
in a general way, to mean any small division 



182 THE ART OF PLAYWRITING. 

of the act, and corresponds to the French 
word scene} Many playwrights employ the 
French principle in the process of outlining, 
as it serves to mark off the successive stages 
of progress in the plot. 

2. Order of Scenes. — To determine the 
proper order of scenes in a play is one c"f the 
things in playwriting which must, to a large 
extent, be left to genius and experience. The 
most important matters to be observed are the 
following : — 

(1.) Connection of scenes. 

(2.) Sequence of scenes. 

(3.) Variety of scenes. 

(4.) Time of characters on the stage. 

(5.) Opportunities for dressing. 

(6.) Opportunities for action. 

3. Connection of Scenes. — No scene 
should be written which does not find its ex- 
planation in some preceding scene, and form 
the basis of some scene that follows. To ac- 
complish this result, the mind of the play- 
wright must be continually running backward 
and forward over the skeleton of the play, — 
backward, to see that each new scene outlined 
is the logical outcome of what has already 
been outlined ; forward, to see what modifica- 
tions it may effect in the remaining portion 
of the plot. In many cases, he will be able 
to " justify " a scene whose relevancy is not 
sufB.ciently apparent, by going back over his 

^ See Chapter x. 5. 



HOW TO WRITE A PLAY. 183 

work and inserting a line here and there ; in 
other cases, the introduction of new scenes 
which seem too valuable to be thrown away 
will sometimes compel a considerable modifi- 
cation of all that comes after them. 

4. Sequence of Scenes. — As the scenef 
are the logical connecting links between the 
important situations and climaxes, they are 
not to be thrown in haphazard, but made to 
follow a regular, orderly sequence. Each 
scene must glide into the following one with- 
out haste or jar. It must be the direct con- 
tinuation of the preceding scene and a direct 
preparation for the one that is to follow. In 
short, every scene must be made to play its 
part in the regular rise and fall of the dra- 
matic movement. 

6. Variety of Scenes. — While each scene 
is most intimately connected with those which 
precede and follow, it must not be permitted 
to be the same in kind, or the play will soon 
grow monotonous. Every device known to 
the playwright must be employed to secure 
the effects of variety and contrast. The fol- 
lowing points need especial care : — 

(1.) Variety of emotions aroused. 

(2.) Variety in number and grouping of 
characters. 

(3.) Variety in method of exit and enters. 

6. Variety of Emotions. — This means 
that there should be a constant change from 
eomic to pathetic, from grave to gay, from 



184 THE ART OF PLAYWRITTNG. 

brilliant repartee to earnest sentiment. These 
changes must not be made abruptly (unless 
by that means some powerful effect may be 
obtained), but should shade one into the other 
in the most natural and unobtrusive manner, 
the change being made just at the point where 
interest is about to pass into a feeling of mo- 
notony. 

7. Number and Grouping of Characters. 
— The number of characters on the stage 
should be varied from scene to scene. Scenes 
in which the same number of characters are 
concerned should not be permitted to follow 
each other in close succession. For one so- 
liloquy to follow another (unless some comic 
or burlesque effect is attained by this very 
means), is inartistic to the last degree. As 
regards the grouping of characters, the prin- 
ciples laid down in a preceding chapter ^ must 
be carefully observed. That is, those charac- 
ters must be brought together which will best 
serve as foils one to another. The frank, im- 
pulsive character of Leonie should be used to 
bring out the finesse of the Countess. The 
vacillation of Custave should be opposed to 
the reckless daring of Henri. On the other 
hand, scenes in which Custave and Leonie are 
alone together will be of necessity weak, and 
should be avoided altogether. 

8. Variety of Exits and Enters. — Meth- 
■ods of varying the exits and enters are given 

^ See Chapter xxiv. 



HOW TO WRITE A PLAY. 185 

elsewhere.-^ All of tliese devices, and any 
others that the dramatist may invent, should 
be employed to give variety to the stage 
movements. 

9. Time of Characters on the Stage. — 
The length of time which each character 
spends on the stage must be carefully reck- 
oned up, and pains taken to see that no one 
is given a disproportionate amount of work to 
do. The Countess, as leading lady and most 
important character, will, of course, bear the 
brunt of the action. No actor should be kept 
on the stage continuously for more than two 
important scenes ; that is, not more than from 
ten to fifteen minutes, nor for more than ninety 
minutes all told, out of the usual two hours of 
total production. This is on the supposition 
that the part of the Countess borders on a 
star role. In actual star plays, the star is 
generally before the audience about ten to 
fifteen minutes longer. 

10. Opportunities for Dressing. — If any 
one of the characters is required to change 
his dress during the progress of the act, care 
should be taken to allow sufficient time be- 
tween his exit and his entrance for this task 
to be accomplished. The time required will 
depend upon the elaborateness of the change. 
Generally speaking, at least from five to ten 
minutes should be allowed. If a new make- 
up is also required, an additional margin of 

^ See Chapter xii. 



186 THE ART OF PLAY WRITING. 

five minutes, tliat is, fifteen minutes all told, 
will be necessary. Change of dress can of 
course be made in much shorter time. 

11. Opportunities for Acting. — Volumes 
might be" written on this point, and indeed it 
is not too much to say that right here, if any- 
where, lies the secret of successful play- 
vrriting. Like most secrets, however, it can- 
not be communicated ; it must be discovered 
by each author for himself, either by native 
genius, or by dint of observation and experi- 
ment. One caution may be of some service 
here : — Do not make your characters say in 
words what they can say more forcibly in 
action. When the Countess learns of Henri's 
love for Leonie, she should not be made to 
dissipate her emotion in words — a look will 
be vastly more impressive, and really tell the 
audience more than any words possibly could. 

12. Dialogue. — After the entire play, or 
perhaps the first act only, has been thus out- 
lined, nothing remains but to write the dia- 
logue as it is actually to be spoken. What 
character this shall take will depend largely 
upon the character of the play ^ and the in- 
dividuality of the author. In plays repre- 
senting modern life, especially comedies, the 
dialogue cannot be too crisp and nervous. 
Clearness and force should be the principal 
qualities aimed at. Ornamental writing of 
every sort may be left out altogether, with 

^ See Chapter ix. 



HOW TO WRITE A PLAY. 187 

slight danger of marring the effectiveness of 
the play. 

Some playwrights go to the extent of out- 
lining the entire dialogue, 3r large portions of 
it, before setting to work at actual composi- 
tion. 

The method sketched in the preceding chap- 
ters is not, of course, the only one by which 
plays may be written. Almost every play- 
wright has his own ways of working, peculiar 
to his genius and temperament. The process 
here set forth is intended to be merely sug- 
gestive, to lead the student to go at his work 
in a systematic way, whatever system he may 
finally adopt. 

The student will of course have recognized, 
in the play just outlined, the main points of 
Eugene Scribe's Un Duel en Amour, which 
Charles Eeade Englished under the title of 
The Ladies^ Battle. 



For College Courses in Composition 



EXPOSITORY WRITING 

By Mervin James Curl, Formerly Instructor in English^ University 
of Illinois. 

" It is a htiman textbook. The student feels that a real fiesh-and- 
blood person is cooperating with him, advising him wisely but never 
condescendingly, hitting the mark without shooting over his head or 
underestimating his intelligence. Sound doctrine is here success- 
fully allied to the vital experiences of all sorts and conditions of men;" 
not only in the text, but in the rich and really workable exercises, 
and in the illustrative specimens, which show the catholicity of the 
writer's taste." — Emerson G. Sutcliffe, Ph.D., University of 
Minnesota, Department of Rhetoric. 

THE STUDY AND PRACTICE OF WRITING ENGLISH 

By Gerhard R. Lomer, Formerly Instructor in English in the School 
of Journalism, Columbia University in the City of New York, and 
Margaret Ashmun, Formerly Instructor in English in the Uni' 
versity of Wisconsin. 

This textbook gives students all the essentials of composition in a 
concise, well-arranged form. It contains all the necessary facts. 
The treatment is adequate. Clear examples illustrate the various 
rules. Practical exercises provide plenty of drill on the particular 
points that trouble students. 

SENTENCES AND THINKING 

By Norman Foerster, Professor of English, University of North 
Carolina, and J. M. Steadman, Jr., Associate Professor of English, 
Emory University. 

A practice book in sentence making. It really presents three 
books in one: — (i) A Constructive Discussion of Essentials in 
Composition, (2) A Book of Exercises, and (3) A Manual ol 
Errors. 



HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 

1944 



For College Classes 

PHILOSOPHY AND ETHICS 

Cushman's A Beginner's History of Philosophy 

Drake's Problems of Conduct 

Drake's Problems of Religion 

Libby's An Introduction to the History of Science 

Rand's The Modern Classical Philosophers 

Rand's The Classical Moralists 

Sellars's Essentials of Logic 

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Bloomfield's Youth, School, and Vocation 

Bobbitt's The Curriculimi 

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Dooley's Principles and Methods of Industrial Education 

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Freeman's Experimental Education 

Freeman's How Children Learn 

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Inglis's Principles of Secondary Education 

Judd's The Evolution of a Democratic School System 

Kirkpatrick's The Individual in the Making 

Langfeld and AUport's Elementary Laboratory Course in 
Psychology 

Leake's Industrial Education; Its Problems, Methods, and Dan- 
gers 

Leake's Means and Methods of Agricultural Education 

McMurry's (C. A.) Conflicting Principles in Teaching 

McMurry's (F. M.) How to Study 

Nolan's Teaching of Agriculture 

O' Shea's Social Development and Education 

Rand's The Classical Psychologists 

Ruediger's The Principles of Education 

Smith's An Introduction to Educational Sociology 

Snedden's Problems of Educational Readjustment 

Snedden's Problems of Secondary Education 

Terman's The Hygiene of the School Child 

Tyler's Growth and Education 

Waddle's An Introduction to Child Psychology 

Warren's Human Psychology 

Wilson's Motivation of School Work 

Woodley's The Profession of Teaching 



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NEW ISSUES IN THE 

Riverside Literature Series 

For the Grades 

A.ldrich's Marjorie Daw and Other Stories. No. 265. 

Antin's At School in the Promised Land. No. 245. 

BuRRouGHs's The Wit of a Duck, and Other Papers. No. 259. 

Irving's Tales from the Alhambra. Adapted by Josephine Brov/er. 
No. 260. 

Kipling Stories and Poems Every Child should Know. Part I, 

No. 257. Part II, No. 258. 

Muir's The Boyhood of a Naturalist. No. 247. 

Sharp's Ways of the Woods. No. 266. 

Wiggin's Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. No. 264. 

Selections for Reading and Memorizing. Grades I-VIII. Sev^ 

volumes, Nos. FF-MM inclusive. 

For High Schools 

BoswELL's The Life of Johnson. Abridged. No. 248. 

Clarke's A Treasury of War Poetry. No. 262. 

Liberty, Peace, and Justice. (Documents and Addresses 1776- 
1918.) No. 261. 

Keller's The Story of My Life. No. 253, 

Palmer's Self-Cultivation in English. No. 249. 

Peabody's The Piper. No. 263. 

RiCHARDs's High Tide. An Anthology. No. 256. 

For Colleges 

Howells's a Modern Instance. No. 252. 

Lockwood's English Soimets. No. 244. 

Rittenhouse's The Little Book of American Poets. No. 255. 

Rittenhouse's The Little Book of Modern Verse. No. 254. 

Shepard's Shakespeare Questions. No. 246. 

Sheridan's The School for Scandal. No. 250. 

Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, and Piers the Ploughman. 
Na 251. 



Houghton Mifflin Company 

1940 



FOR COURSES ON THE DRAMA 

DRAMATIC TECHNIQUE 

By George Pierce Baker, Harvard University. 

THE TUDOR DRAMA 

By C. F. Tucker Brooke, Yale University. 

An illuminating history of the development of English Drama dur- 
ing the Tudor Period, from 1485 to the close of the reign of EHzabeth. 

CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS 

Edited by Thomas H. Dickinson, University of Wisconsin. 

This book presents within one volume those plays apart from the 
vv^orks of Ibsen which may be considered landmarks in the field of 
modern contemporary drama. No compilation of a like nature has 
been previously made. 

CHIEF EUROPEAN DRAMATISTS 

Edited by Brander Matthews, Columbia University, Member 
of the American Academy of Arts and Letters. 
This volume contains one typical play from each of the master 
dramatists of Europe, with the exception of the English writers. 

A STUDY' OF THE DRAMA 

By Brander Matthews. 

Devoted mainly to an examination of the structural framework 
which the great dramatists of various epochs have given to their plays; 
it discusses only incidentally the psychology, the philosophy, and the 
poetry of these pieces. 

THE CHIEF ELIZABETHAN DRAMATISTS 

Edited by W. A. Neilson, Professor of EngUsh Literature in Har- 
vard University. 
This volume presents tj'pical examples of the work of the most 

important of Shakespeare's contemporaries, so that, taken with 

Shakespeare's own works, it affords a view of the development of the 

English drama through its most brilliant period. 

A HISTORY OF THE ELIZABETHAN DRAMA 

By Felix E. Schelling, University of Pennsylvania. 2 vols. 

SHAKESPEAREAN PLAYHOUSES 

By Joseph Quincy Adams, Cornell University. 
A History of English Theatres from the Beginnings to the Restor* 
ation. Fully illustrated. 

SHAKESPEARE QUESTIONS 

By Odell Shepard, Trinity College. Riverside Literature 

Series. No. 246. 

An outline for the study of the leading plays. 

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For College Classes 

BUSINESS 

Cole's Accounts: Their Construction and Interpretation 

Hall's Writing an Advertisement 

Harris's Practical Banking 

Lyon's Corporation Finance 

Lyon's The Principles of Taxation 

Munsterberg's Psychology and Industrial Efficiency 

Raymond's American and Foreign Investment Bonds 

Thompson's The Theory and Practice of Scientific Manage- 
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SOCIOLOGY 

Calkins's Substitutes for the Saloon 

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Kirkpatrick's Fundamentals of Sociology 

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JOURNALISM 

Bleyer's Newspaper Writing and Editing 
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PUBLIC SPdlAKING 

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SPANISH 

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1943 



THE CAMBRIDGE POETS— STUDENTS' EDITION 

Robert Browning's Complete Poetical and Dramatic Works. 

Bums's Complete Poetical Works. 

Dryden's Complete Poetical Works. 

English and Scottish Ballads. 

Keats's Complete Poetical Works and Letters. 

Longfellow's Complete Poetical Works. 

Milton's Complete Poetical Works. 

Pope's Complete Poetical Works. 

Shakespeare's Complete Works. 

Shelley's Complete Poetical Works. 

Spenser's Complete Poetical Works. 

Tennyson's Poetic and Dramatic Works. 

Whittier's Complete Poetical Works. 

Wordsworth's Complete Poetical Works. 

ANTHOLOGIES : POETRY AND DRAMA 

The Chief Middle English Poets. Translated and Edited by Jessie 
L. Weston. 

The Chief British Poets of the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries. 
Edited by W. A. Neilson and K. G. T. Webster. 

The Leading English Poets from Chaucer to Browning. Edited by 
L. H. Holt. 

A Victorian Anthology. Edited by Edmund Clarence Stedman. 

The Chief American Poets. Edited by C. H. Page. 

An American Anthology. Edited by Edmund Clarence Sted- 
man. 

Little Book of Modem Verse. Edited by Jessie B. Rittenhouse. 
! R.L.S. No. 254. 

Little Book of American Poets. Edited by Jessie B. Ritten- 
house. R.L.S. No. 255. 

High Tide. Edited by Mrs. Waldo Richards. R.L.S. No. 256. 

A Treasury of War Poetry. Edited by George H. Clarke. 
R.L.S. No. 262. 

The Chief Elizabethan Dramatists. Edited by W. A. Neilson. 

Chief European Dramatists. In Translation. Edited by Brander 

Matthews. 

Chief Contemporary Dramatists. Edited by Thomas H. Dickinson. 

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
BOSTON NEW YORK CHICAGO 

1714 



ENGLISH FOR COLLEGE COURSES 

EXPOSITORY WRITING 

By Mervin J. Curl, 

Gives freshmen and sophomores something to write about- 
and helps them in their writing. 

SENTENCES AND THINKING 

By Norman Foerster, University of North Carolina, and J. M, 

Stedman, Jr., Emory University. 

A practice book in sentence-making for college freshmen. 

A HANDBOOK OF ORAL READING 

By Lee Emerson Bassett, Leland Stanford Junior University. 

Especial emphasis is placed on the relation of thought and 
speech, technical vocal exercises being subordinated to a study 
of the principles underlying the expression of ideas. Illustra- 
tive selections of both poetry and prose are freely employed. 

ARGUMENTATION AND DEBATING {Reused Edition) 

By William T. Foster, Reed College. 

The point of view throughout is that of the student rather 
than that of the teacher. 

THE RHETORICAL PRINCIPLES OF NARRATION 

By Carroll Lewis Maxcy, Williams College. 
A clear and thorough analysis of the three elements of nar- 
rative writing, viz.: setting, character, and plot. 

REPRESENTATIVE NARRATIVES 

Edited by Carroll Lewis Maxcy. 

This compilation contains twenty-two complete selections of 
various types of narrative composition. 

THE STUDY AND PRACTICE OF WRITING ENGLISH 

By Gerhard R. Lomer, Ph.D., and Margaret Ashmun. 
A textbook for use in college Freshman courses. 

HOW TO WRITE SPECIAL FEATURE ARTICLES 

By WiLLARD G. Bleyer, University of Wisconsin. 
A textbook for classes in Journalism and in advanced Eng- 
lish Composition. 

NEWSPAPER WRITING AND EDITING 

By WiLLARD G. Bleyer. 

This fully meets the requirements of courses in Journalism 
as given in our colleges and universities, and at the same time 
appeals to practical newspaper men. 

TYPES OF NEWS WRITING 

By WiLLARD G. Bleyer. 

Over two hundred typical stories taken from representative 
American newspapers are here presented in a form convenient 
for college classes in Journalism. 

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
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1421 



For College Classes 

HISTORY 

The Riverside History of the United States. Four volumes 

(i) Becker's Beginnings of the American People — (2) John- 
son's Union and Democracy — (3) Dodd's Expansion and 
Conflict — (4) Paxson's The New Nation. 

Harris's Intervention and Colonization in Africa 

Jeffery's The New Europe, 1789-1889 

Johnson's Readings in American Constitutional History 

Landon's The Constitutional History and Government of the 

United States 
Lowell's The Eve of the French Revolution 
Murdock's The Reconstruction of Europe 
Perkins's France in the American Revolution 
Perkins's France under the Regency 
Perkins's France under Louis XV, Two Volumes 
Ploetz's Epitome of Ancient, Mediaeval, and Modem History 
Ropes's The First Napoleon 

Schapiro's Modem and Contemporary European History 
Semple's American History and Its Geographic Conditions 
Slater's The Making of Modem England 
Stanwood's History of the Presidency 

Taylor's The Origin and Growth of the American Constitution 
Taylor's The Origin and Growth of the English Constitution 
Taswell-Langmead's English Constitutional History 
Thorndike's The History of Mediaeval Europe 
Usher's Industrial History of England 
Weir's Introduction to the History of Modem Europe 

GOVERNMENT 

Johnson's Readings in American Constitutional History 
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Stowell's International Cases. Vol. I. Peace. Vol. IL Wai 
and Neutrality. 



HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 

1941 



PLAYS OF SHAKESPEARE 

AS YOU LIKE IT. No. 93. With Introductory and Explan- 
atory Notes and Suggestions for Study. 

HAMLET. No. 116. With an Introduction, Explanatory Notes, 
and Suggestions for Study by Helen Gray Cone, Professor of Eng- 
lish in Hunter College. 

HENRY V. No. 163. With an Introduction, a Bibliography, and 
Notes by Edward Everett Hale, Ph.D., Professor of English in 
Union College, Schenectady, N. Y, 

JULIUS CffiSAR. No. 67. With an Introduction, Explanatory 
Notes, Suggestions for Study, and a Bibliography. 

KING LEAR. No. 184. With an Introduction, Bibliography, 
and Explanatory Notes. Edited by Ashley H. Thorndike, Profes- 
sor of English in Columbia University. 

MACBETH. No. 106. With an Introduction, Explanatory Notes, 
and Suggestions for Special Study. With additional Notes by 
Helen Gray Cone. 

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. No. 55. With Intro- 
duction and Notes by Samuel Thurber, Late Master in the Girls' 
High School, Boston, Mass. 

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM. No. 153. With an 
Introduction, Explanatory Notes, and an Appendix by Laura E. 
Lockvi^ood, Ph.D., Associate Professor of English Language at 
Wellesley College. 

ROMEO AND JULIET, No. 212. With Introduction and 
Notes by William Strunk, Jr., Professor of the English Language 
and Literature, Cornell University. 

THE TEMPEST. No. 154. With an Introduction and Ex- 
planatory Notes. Edited by Edward Everett Hale, Ph.D. 

TWELFTH NIGHT. No. 149. With an Introduction, Ex- 
planatory Notes, Suggestions for Special Study, and an Appendix. 
With additional Notes by Helen Gray Cone. 

SHAKESPEARE QUESTIONS. No. 246. An Outline of 
the Study of Shakespeare's Plays, by Odell Shepard, Professor of 
English, Trinity College. 



HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 

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1910 



FOR COLLEGE LITERATURE 
COURSES 

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BoTTA — Handbook of Universal Literature, $2.25. 

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THE HISTORY OF EUROPE 

MODERN AND CONTEMPORARY 
EUROPEAN HISTORY 

By J. Salwtn Schapiro, Ph.D., of the College of the City of 

New York. Seventh Impression. Revised to the close of the 
Great War. 77^ pages. 28 maps. 

A textbook written especially for American college classes. 
With the point of view of the impartial historian, Professor 
Schapiro interprets European civilization on the basis of 
intellectual and material progress. Military and political 
events alone no longer constitute the complete scope of a 
textbook in history; social and economic problems and 
achievements have come to earn an equally important place. 
That the author recognizes this significant tendency is proved 
by his emphatic and generous treatment of the development 
of the democratic ideal, its influence and its expressions, 
found in such movements as socialism, syndicalism and 
feminism. An accurate perspective is secured for the stu- 
dent, inasmuch as increasingly more attention is given to 
the periods as they approach our own time. 

THE HISTORY OF MEDIEVAL EUROPE 

By Lynn Thorndike, Ph.D., of Western Reserve University. 
Edited by James T. Shotwell, of Columbia University. 640 
pages. 24 maps. 

A textbook written especially for American college classes. 
It " traces the history of the European and Mediterranean 
countries from the decline of the Roman Empire, from the 
beginning of Christianity, to the discovery of the American 
continents, and to the eve of the revolt of the Protestants 
from the church of Rome." In attention to the significance 
of economic and social conditions, to the influence of geog- 
raphy upon civilization, and in furnishing a vivid and selec- 
tive background for the events of history, this volume is a 
distinctive addition to the list of textbooks on European 
history of the Middle Ages. A particular appeal to the 
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4)on a few of the greatest personalities of the times, like 
iSrregory the Great, Mohammed and Justinian. 

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